Omega Days (Volume 1) - By John L. Campbell Page 0,22

we do with civvies if we find them? We’re full up.”

Postman pointed towards the green truck. “We send ‘em down to First Platoon.”

Taylor used his rifle scope to look down that way. Lots of doorways and alleys, plenty of places for the dead to hide. Those three blocks would be a long walk. “We going to send these guys down there?”

The sergeant glanced at the Hummer, then at the distance to first platoon. “Not just yet. Let’s see what happens.”

The radio summoned Sgt. Postman back to the vehicle, because they were only a Guard unit and weren’t equipped with the personal headset and throat mic radios issued to regular units and troops overseas. He returned a couple minutes later and moved around to the hood, snapping his fingers to get his squad’s attention. “That was Sgt. Rodriguez. Second Platoon is engaged to the east.” They all glanced to their rear, as if expecting to see soldiers fighting. “He says a headshot will put them down.”

In the turret, Private Jay Hayman nodded.

“So that’s good and bad,” said Postman. “You’re going to have to rely on aimed, single shots, so shooting on the move is going to be pointless. It will conserve ammo, though.” Pvt. Hayman made a sour face. His big, lethal toy was no longer of much use. Machineguns were not precision weapons. He reached down and took his rifle from Skye’s hand, then started turning in a slow circle, looking for trouble.

“Rules of engagement remain the same. Fire on a freak only if you’re certain it’s not a wounded person walking slowly.”

“They got to get too close for that!” said the soldier on the opposite side of the vehicle.

“You’ll just have to work it out, Simpkins.” The sergeant turned to cover his own sector.

Taylor watched an empty street. And why was that, he wondered? All the streets of Berkeley had at least a few freaks wandering around. Had this neighborhood been evacuated already? He doubted it. The one civilian evacuation plan he had heard of had been a clusterfuck that quickly turned into a buffet for the walking dead.

The radio squawked with requests for situation reports and several demands for medical airlift. One panicked call for an artillery fire mission made them all glance at one another. A distant crackle of gunfire drifted on the air, along with a far-off siren and the thump of rotor blades. It was coming from behind them, where Second Platoon was supposed to be. Sgt. Postman moved closer to listen to the radio, as Taylor caught movement at the edge of his vision. He snapped the rifle up and tracked the scope in that direction, moving it over cars, over sidewalks, even up across second and third story windows.

He saw curtains and blinds moving, pawing hands and dead faces pressed against the glass. Taylor shuddered. How many were trapped inside these buildings? How many were still alive, afraid to leave the safety of their locked apartments? What would happen to them? So many, so fast… His National Guard unit in Richmond had been mobilized at four a.m. this morning, and after a quick briefing at the armory, where they drew their weapons and gear and learned the rules of engagement, they were rolling. Information was sketchy and incomplete, most of it beyond believing, but here it was all around them. They had been told that the freaks (no one had come up with a catchy name for them yet, but Taylor had faith in his military brethren) were highly contagious, and transmitted through biting. Those killed by the bites arose as the walking dead, generally slow-moving but relentless. There was some talk about a fever, and speculation that death in any form, bite or otherwise, was playing some role in all this. Their company commander’s brilliant advice? “Don’t get bitten.”

Most of the soldiers he knew believed that it had been quietly brewing for days, the numbers of the dead steadily increasing, until it began to spill into the streets on a large scale. Civilian police were being overrun, and the few, scattered military units in the area were overwhelmed. Those with internet access stated that it was everywhere. Taylor heard a captain outside the armory speaking softly with another officer, saying the situation had already passed the point of control.

More movement, on the street now, about midway up the block; an old man, shoulders hunched, shuffling out between two cars. He was bald and wore a gray sweater, and dragged one foot as