Chapter Eleven

Commander Trent gave me a nod, letting me know he was aware I was avoiding reality, and answered, "We fight. Things are mostly under control here in the States, but the greater part of the world was overrun with the exception of Australia, Greenland, and several smaller island nations. Portions of North Russia have managed to survive and a large portion of Japan made it out to sea in time. Our own civilian population will immigrate North to Alaska where infrastructure for long-term survival is already being erected—things like greenhouses for food and housing. We've agreed to share the peninsula with Canada's survivors and we'll be erecting a wall around it, protecting it under a joint flag. Scientists from all countries are converging on Antarctica and they've agreed to continue working together under the Antarctic Treaty. That means no military boots on the ground, but we're not leaving them completely unprotected."

"I'm not asking about the world," I corrected. "I mean you, specifically. What are your plans? What's your mission here?"

"We fight," he repeated. "Consider us mercenary zombie hunters. Our unit is assigned to go into infected areas, scout, and draw up risk assessments. Understand, they're already calling this the Century War even though projections say it should take under a decade. Setbacks are expected and we can probably set our watch by them, but the existence of this unit and those like it means no nukes and no flooding the atmosphere with enough radiation to kill healthy humans. We're green-lit to demo any building we want and we have air support if we encounter any potential evacuees. If we encounter an infestation too big to handle, we can call in sorties.

When we're done clearing the States, we move on to support units in other countries—either north into Canada or south into Mexico first. And when the entire world is free of zombies, the American Forces who are lich or immune have been promised new identities and a tropical island as our retirement home. Make no mistake, we'll be isolated from the rest of the world, but it won't be a concentration camp and we'll get the chance to live out our lives in peace. We're actually going to set up a Headquarters there once we clear that far. Does that sound like something either of you would be interested in signing up for?"

And there it was—the real reason he was free to tell us everything. We were being drafted yet again.

"Do the doctors have a timeline on natural decomposition of the undead?" I asked.

"A really long fucking time," Commander Trent said with a sigh. "It's the whole cell efficiency issue. They don't actually need to drink water to stay hydrated. A little rain water in their mouth or even water in an open wound and they're good to go. The same for food. They can survive on a diet that would kill a normal human. An ounce of raw meat could keep one on its feet for over a month, from what I was told. The meal you just ate could potentially keep you on yours for the same amount of time."

"I'm not saying no to joining up," Hanson said hesitantly. "But what if I did?"

"We'll have you airlifted to a medical ship for blood tests and in-depth scans," he replied, his expression turning stony. "From there, I couldn't tell you. Maybe they'll transfer you to a refugee camp for the infected and let you live. Maybe not. Whatever the outcome, you won't be given freedom for a very long time. At least, not until after the vaccine has been distributed and proven effective. I'm not saying this to scare you into agreeing. I'm simply trying to be real with the both of you, just like I'll always be if you enter into service under me."

"You're not giving us much choice," I grumbled.

"I'm aware and I can't do anything about that. But see it this way—you were already headed East. If you travel with us, you'll have support and weaponry you wouldn't get otherwise. To be frank, I'm just working with what I've been given and you're two more potentials soldiers who can walk among the dead without being zombie bait. We need you."

"And if the government decides it doesn't need us?" Hanson asked. I was glad he put it out there, because I would have if he hadn't.

The Commander sighed. "I'm going to be real with you. I'm sure you're already aware of how much of a threat we are to our own people and it's a possibility we'll eventually be viewed as the enemy. I don't like it any more than you do. It is what it is. We can either live in fear of being shot in the back or we can do something good with the lives we have and maybe, just maybe, the rest of humanity will prove themselves worthy of our efforts. I'm aware it's a slim hope, but it's hope nonetheless. But no matter what happens in the future, I can promise I'll do everything in my power to protect my people."

"I'm in," Hanson said decisively. I looked at him for a long moment, wondering again what he was thinking, but I knew we didn't really have any other option.

"I go where he goes," I said.

"Wonderful! In that case, I'll have Sergeant Craft bring you up to speed and get your platoon assignment."

The next few hours were filled with paperwork and medical tests to make our enlistment official. We were allowed to keep the mock uniforms we had and Sergeant Craft, a scrawny blue-eyed man hardly bigger than Hanson in size, complimented us on our rucksacks as he handed them over. Apparently they'd already been searched and garnered approval from experienced veterans.

"We'll get you Unit Uniforms with the next supply drop," Craft promised as he showed us around the camp. There were thirteen trailers in total—six for individual platoon living quarters, one for vehicle maintenance, two armories, a messhall, a surveillance center, a medical bay, and the command center. "Armory one is defense—you'll get your Tactical Gear there. Armory two is offense—that's for weapons and bullets. Be considerate to the guys working there. It wasn't easy to find people with the right skillsets and the courage to follow us into Hell. Marco in A1 does repairs and Charlie in A2 is an incendiary genius. They can always use extra hands. I suggest you offer them during your downtime. You'll learn a lot."

We went from trailer to trailer being introduced to more people than I could remember names. It seemed like the number was far greater than I initially suspected, although Craft informed us there were less than two hundred people in total.

After another hour of being shown around and told what to expect, we were handed off to Sergeant James, a tall man who actually looked like an Army Sergeant. He took over the tour and guided us to our assigned platoon—platoon six, according to the numeral posted on the trailer's front fender.

The interior of the sleeping trailers—or billet buses, as we were told to call them—wasn't much different than any typical tour bus, except there was a steel cage around the driver's seat and the different sections were partitioned off by steel prison bars. Section one, toward the front of the bus, offered a pair of semi-circular booths that doubled as both dining areas and lounging areas. It appeared, from the people currently using it, the standard mode of self-entertainment was to use a tablet computer and earbuds.

We barely received a glance as we were ushered back to the second section where the actual bunks lined the walls. Here, the Sergeant pointed us to a top bunk at the very rear and said, "You'll have to double-up. We have ten bunks and twenty people now. Sleep with head toward the rear of the bus and no bitching about the smell from the bathroom. You can sort out sleeping shifts if you need to, but lich don't need to sleep. Give your bunkmate the space if he wants it, yeah?"

Since that was aimed at me, I gave him a nod and tossed my rucksack into the overhead storage compartment.

The billet's bathroom was through the neighboring door, although it was more of a shared locker room with four shower heads and two toilets partitioned off with plastic curtains. Both curtains were labeled with the repeating motif, "No solids." Sergeant James flicked the flimsy plastic sheet with his fingers and explained, "Piss only, and only when we're in motion. Otherwise, find a tree. If you need to shit, go outside and dig a fucking trench or wait until we're in town and use a toilet like a civilized person. If we have to deal with your smell, you're going to regret it.

We call the rest of the room the fuck-box. After a mission, you'll come through the rear door on the far side of the shower and decontaminate. Showers are set on a five minute timer. Get in, get clean. The tanks aren't unlimited. When you're done, get dressed at your bunk, and you'll report back outside for after-mission debrief. We have women in our platoon, so we trade off on who goes first. Next mission ends with ladies first.

Only after debrief are you free to use the fuck-box as a fuck-box. No fucking out in the open. It's not safe to let your guard down outside and your asses are mine if I catch either of you screwing around on duty. Bryant, you're a lich, so use some damned sense in picking partners. No fucking around with anyone who isn't already infected. I don't care if you have condoms. If I catch you fucking someone who's clean, I'll blow your head off personally. Same goes for non-consenting sex. If we can't trust you to act decently to your comrades, we can't trust you period and that makes you dead weight. We don't let the dead keep walking around here."

I knew he was merely giving me the speech he probably gave everyone, but it seriously felt like I was being singled out. Hanson must have sensed the same thing, because he stepped up and wrapped his arm around my waist as he said, "I'm immune. We know we're carriers and we know to be careful."

Sergeant James' eyes flickered down, taking in Hanson's arm around me, and I saw the moment he made several assumptions about our relationship. I let those assumptions stand, especially when the guy relaxed because of them.