Rend, page 12
“No worries. Glad we could help,” the gunner replied. “We’re bingo ammo, will have to fly back to Quantico to rearm and refuel, but we should be back in about thirty minutes, over.”
“Thanks for the heads up,” he replied. “I just got word that we’re clear to move into the Archives, so we won’t be as exposed once we get in there, over.”
“Acknowledged. Be safe, Gravedigger out.”
Kestrel switched back to the team-internal frequency and said, “Agent Harper says we’re through the door locks. Let’s get inside, get a head count and seal that door behind us. Then we’ve got to clear the building before the artifacts recovery team can begin.”
The men peeled off one by one and went inside to secure the public research area first. Kestrel glared into the fog at the writhing mass of bodies along Pennsylvania Avenue and even some beginning to move down 9th Street. It wouldn’t be long before they were trapped inside the building and the roof would be their only option.
*****
08 March, 0904 hrs local
The National Archives
Washington, DC
Thank goodness for small miracles, Kestrel thought to himself as they manhandled several large desks into place. The Research Entrance door opened outward toward the street, so the creatures outside wouldn’t be able to press against it mercilessly until it caved inwards. The team split up and half of them quickly secured the research area and barred the doors while the other half busied themselves with blocking the entrance. After they blocked off the glass so the zombies couldn’t see inside, the hope was that they’d wander off again. No one knew what kind of memory these things had, but if they had any luck at all, it was a short one.
Kestrel posted two men at the door they’d entered for security and told Allyson and her group to stay put until they’d cleared the building. As they made their way from the research area into the main lobby they ran across the desiccated remains of former employees of the National Archives. When the initial radiation wave blasted through the city, they’d been trapped inside. At least they hadn’t turned into zombie, he thought. If people could die and not turn, why are there so many of damn things in the city?
He had his own thoughts on the matter and as he stalked through the building he was sure that he was right. Government scientists had determined that A-Coll wasn’t airborne during the zombie war, so it took a bite or transfer of bodily fluids to spread the disease. People who were trapped or chose to stay inside immediately after the blast, likely succumbed to the radiation and didn’t become zombies. The original Type Ones likely attacked those who were stuck on the interstate trying to leave the area. It was a simple domino effect from there.
It didn’t take long for him to get the sense that the building was empty, but they had to make sure and secure the other four ground-level entrances. The National Archives was a large rectangle consisting of three floors. The lower level held the theater and the upper level held the documents that the team had come here for. The street level consisted of the gift shop and the research area on the north side of the building. There were emergency exits on the east and west and two doors on the south side. When the building had been open, the two doors were used separately as an entrance and an exit only.
Kestrel smiled as he thought about his visit to the Archives with his second wife and her kids. They’d spent most of the day walking around the various museums and the children were tired but she was determined to see the Constitution. She lit into the police officer manning the exit because he told her that she had to walk the extra block down to the entrance. God, that woman could be vicious! Kestrel had to step in and almost physically restrain her before she got arrested. At the time, he thought they fit well together because she was certifiably crazy and he was screwed up in the head, but that just wasn’t the case.
“Lower level and theater clear,” a voice over the headset shook him from his quiet reverie.
“Roger,” he answered back over the radio.
“This is Campbell. Doors are all secure. We didn’t run across any zombies, but found four bodies in the western restrooms. Looks like they were getting sick in the toilets and died.”
“Okay. Thanks, Campbell,” he replied. “Go check out the upper area, ensure that it’s clear and then we’ll bring the artifacts recovery team up there while we go clear the roof.”
“Yes, sir.”
In his mind Kestrel visualized the Archives employees getting sick because of the radiation and staggering their way to the bathroom. Their last moments on Earth were spent in agony as they vomited uncontrollably. They may have sought comfort in each other’s presence when they were in the restroom, but it must have been terrifying for them. He wanted a quick death. Bullet between the eyes, decapitation, step on a landmine, that sort of thing. He couldn’t imagine knowing without a doubt that you only had a few hours to live and you couldn’t do anything about it.
That gave him an idea. It might be a waste of time, but if the Archives staff kept a log like most government agencies, then it may tell him what happened here. He walked briskly across the lobby to the Archives employee office and gently rolled a shriveled body sitting in an office chair out of the way. He searched around until he found the shift manager’s duty log from that morning lying on the floor. His eyes widened as he read through the sheet of paper.
24 April, 0800: John Salizaar opens duty log.
0832: All sixteen scheduled workers present for duty.
0840: Cash registers filled. Museum set to open to the public at 0900.
0910: Some sort of explosion at about 0840. I ordered building to be locked down and documents secured below ground. Phone lines do not work and all electronics are inoperable. Good thing the documents could be manually lowered and secured.
0920: Two employees left to try and make it home—Clarissa Dickson & Roger Dubee. Fourteen employees here now. Panic in the streets outside building. Thousands of people streaming by. Christopher Harrison became uncontrollably sick out of the blue. Several employees reporting stomach discomfort.
0945: We have determined that it must have been a nuclear bomb. All employees sick now. People outside are getting sick and we saw several people in military uniforms attacking crowd. Military people looked strange, something wrong with them. Biting and tearing people apart.
1010: Chris is dead. Ellen probably next.
1040: Office trash can completely full of vomit. I also messed myself, couldn’t control it. Bunch of employees went to bathroom thirty minutes ago, haven’t returned.
1050: I love you Kara. I know you didn’t survive.
1055: Throwing up nothing but blood now. Documents safe in vault. We did our job.
There were parts of the log that his mind had to fill in due to poor penmanship and even a few splotches of what appeared to be blood or vomit, but the message was there. The documents that they were here to find were in the vault. Kestrel dumped out a folder in the trash can and then pulled the employee schedule from the wall. He placed the duty log and the schedule in the folder and secured it in the flap of his ballistic vest. He would make sure that these patriots got the recognition they deserved.
The body that he’d pushed out of the office must have been John Salizaar, the manager on duty that day. He did a quick search of the body and found a metal key hanging on a chain around John’s neck. They’d been briefed that with this key and the combination to the vault, they would be able to open the six-inch steel door without needing to cut through it.
“Hey Asher… I mean Kestrel. This is Harper,” Allyson said over the team leader frequency.
He grinned because she didn’t have to identify herself. She was the only female on the team with access to the team leader network. “Go,” Kestrel answered.
“Campbell came down here and told me that the Rotunda on the second floor was empty. They must have initiated emergency protocols and dropped the documents into the vault.”
“I know. I’ve got the key,” he replied. “I’m headed your way now. Be there in about a minute.”
“Okay, standing by,” she said.
He was furious with Campbell. That little fucking bitch should have reported to him that the area was clear before he told Allyson that the documents were missing. Kestrel vowed to rip into that brown-nosing wannabe when they were alone but it was best not to let Allyson see him flip out again. She’d questioned his mental health this morning after the first incident, so he’d have to control his anger until a more appropriate time.
Kestrel made his way back to the research area where Allyson and the artifact recovery team waited for word that the building was clear. When he got there, he saw the entire contingent of HRT standing around Allyson. “What the hell is going on?” he asked.
“We’re waiting for your okay to send the team upstairs,” Caleb replied.
“Who’s watching the other doors to ensure that the building stays clear?”
The blank stares that he received told him all he needed to see. He pointed at two men, “You and you, go guard the east door. You two go to the west. Get four more guys down to the main entrance and exit and two more stay here. Jesus guys, you act like you’ve never been in a field environment before.”
After the eight men detailed out left Allyson said, “Kestrel, the men haven’t had the training you’ve had. They’re all good guys but they’ve been trained how to breach a building and shoot bad guys while not accidentally shooting hostages. Securing a location and keeping it that way for long periods of time isn’t something they’d normally do.”
He wanted to scream at them, but she made sense. “Okay, but we need these guys to think outside of their comfort zone. We’re surrounded and those doorways are a major factor in our safety.” Undead hands slapped against the glass door leading into the research area to emphasize his point.
“Alright, I need two—no, make it four—shooters back here. They know this is where we went, so I want extra firepower guarding this door,” Kestrel said as he pointed deliberately at the door.
“The rest of you head up to the roof and begin clearing an area so we can safely use the SPIE-rig while I go down to the vault with the artifact recovery team to see what we’re dealing with.”
“What do we do with all that shit up there?” Campbell asked.
“Really?” he questioned in annoyance. “Okay, take the pieces you can pick up and chuck them over the side into the crowd of zombies, maybe you’ll get lucky and brain a few of them. For the bigger shit that you can’t shove off the side, move it out of the way so if the helicopter gets hit by a gust of wind, we won’t get smashed into something.”
“Right. HRT guys, on me,” Campbell said with a dumb wave over his shoulder that Kestrel was sure he’d learned from an action movie. The guy really got on his nerves for some reason.
He turned to Allyson and held up the chain with the key dangling from it. “This was around the shift supervisor’s neck so I assume it’s the vault key that we needed.”
She took it from him and examined the numbers etched into the head. The key had a hollow circular shaft with raised teeth on two sides to engage multiple sets of tumblers inside the lock. It certainly looked like some type of important key to Kestrel, that’s why he grabbed it. “I think you’re right,” she said excitedly. “This does look like the type of key that we were told to find. Good job!”
“Thanks, Allys— I mean, Agent Harper,” he replied. You’re acting like a goddamned love-struck teenager and you’re being absolutely unprofessional, he chided himself.
Kestrel cleared his throat, “Er… Um, are you all ready to travel to the vault to determine the status of the documents?”
“Yeah, I’m definitely ready to go down there and see what we’re working with,” Keith Eubanks said. The artifacts recovery team had pleasantly surprised him. When he learned that they’d saddled him with the big-brained museum researchers he thought they’d be a liability, but so far it had been the opposite. Sure, they weren’t the best marksmen or tacticians; however they listened to what he had to say and could follow directions. They understood their role and tried as hard as they could to keep up with the HRT personnel. If he could have had an entire month with them, he would have eschewed the professional shooters altogether and only taken this team.
They headed down the stairs to the lower level and through the old Charters Café to a closed door labeled, “PRIVATE.” Kestrel had to use the butt of his rifle to break the door handle off and the door swung inward revealing a spiral staircase that led downwards into the pitch black. He flipped down his PNVGs and slowly descended the steps toward the entire reason they’d risked their lives to go behind The Wall.
*****
08 March, 1017 hrs local
The National Gallery of Art
Washington, DC
Chandler stared at the building where the feds had entered. Thousands of zombies besieged the entire north side. He’d watched in amazement when the Apache helicopters destroyed hundreds of the creatures along Pennsylvania Avenue and then the group made it inside the building. The horde had forced its way through the bodies and was now attempting to breach the entrance that they’d seen the humans disappear into.
The boss said to keep low and avoid the feds, so he’d watched helplessly while the creatures surrounded the National Archives building. He didn’t like the government and he had no problem killing an officer, but he sure as hell didn’t want to watch them get eaten. He had morals after all. He radioed down to the team inside to see how much longer they’d be. “Well, we ran into a snag,” the foreman stated.
“What kind of snag,” he asked in disgust. It was always something with these guys. Last week they forgot to charge the batteries for the shrink-wrap generator. A couple of weeks before that, half the crew got rip-roaring drunk celebrating the life of a team member who was killed on the trip from the Gallery to the river and they missed an entire day.
“Well, we’ve had to slow down drastically because of the feds. We didn’t want to risk them seeing any lights so we’ve been working in the dark.”
“Don’t give me that bullshit,” Chandler barked into the radio. “They didn’t come into the city until after dawn. There should be plenty of light in there.”
“But it’s not the conditions that we’re used to working under,” the foreman whined. “It’s a big adjustment to the way we do things.”
He sighed, “Okay, so what are we talking about here?”
“Probably three hours.”
“Fine. You may not be as concerned about your mask since you’ve got a building shielding you from the worst of it, but me and Jeremy are out there, exposed to the full amount of radiation. You need to work as fast as you can.”
“Don’t worry,” the man said. “You’ve got plenty of time left in your mask’s filters.”
Chandler slammed the radio down on the ledge. “Easy for that pencil-dicked fuckhead to say,” he told Jeremy, who nodded.
He saw movement on the roof of the Archives and several shapes erupted from the access door like a goddamned clown car. He misinterpreted why the HRT personnel were on the roof and said, “Looks like they have the same idea that we do.”
“Yeah,” Jeremy replied.
Quite the conversationalist, Chandler thought. He watched them systematically clearing the debris from the roof. What the fuck is the point of that? Stupid feds. One of the men across the way stood at the corner of the building closest to the Gallery and pointed directly at it. “Fuck!” he shouted as he dragged Jeremy down on top of him. The ledge that he’d been looking over chipped and shattered as the shooters across the way began to fire at the building.
“I don’t know how they saw us, but they definitely know that we’re over here,” he grumbled from underneath his spotter.
“Get the boss on the phone. I need to know what he wants us to do,” Chandler said.
Jeremy slithered on his belly to where the phone sat and he dialed the number for Tony Marchione. The line began to beep letting him know that it was transferring between countries. Just as Jeremy started to hand him the phone, the chopping sound of helicopter blades cutting through the thick morning air drowned out the sound coming from the receiver.
*****
08 March, 1028 hrs local
The National Mall
Washington, D.C
Chief Warrant Officer Halsey received the call from Agent Campbell, the leader of the guys on the ground, that they had positive ID of the shooters on the roof of the National Gallery of Art, so he turned his bird east and sped as fast as he could toward their location. Once he was hovering above the Archives building he radioed the men on the roof.
“Campbell, this is Brahma Two-Three,” he said into his helmet’s microphone. “Which building did you say the shooters were on? Over.”
The radio was set to broadcast the reply to the entire crew so the door gunners could follow along with the conversation and react to the information quickly. “We saw at least two men on the roof of the National Gallery of Art, over.”
Chief Halsey looked over to his co-pilot who shook his head to indicate that he hadn’t seen anything. “Acknowledged,” the pilot replied. “We’ll need you to walk us onto the target, over.”
“It’s that large building immediately to our southeast, over.”
The Blackhawk slowly rotated as the pilots and gunners tried to get a bearing on the target location. “I see them!” Specialist Brunson shouted triumphantly from the starboard gunner’s seat while pointing into the murk below the helicopter.
“Can you positively identify that they are humans and that they have weapons?” Chief Halsey asked.
There was a loud metallic ping as Brunson’s helmet flew off his head and landed in the open space behind the pilot and co-pilot. “Oh, Jesus! Oh, mother fucker!” Sergeant Helms screamed from the port gunner’s seat.
