The Control Room
It had been a whole week of being carted from one town to another for the deputized team of zombie killers who had began in Arizona taking out towns crawling with zombies. They would get flown in by helicopter after a jet made a run, and launched napalm on a sea of zombies. They were getting prepared to take down Phoenix. Officer Sinclair was amongst them, his now well used M-4 sitting on the ground, next to a hodgepodge of men, and a couple of women.
They had developed a strategy not unlike something he'd read about in the Rhodesian War. Teams had been flown in by helicopter after an area was hit with a firebomb from a jet, or another helicopter. The landing team would then "mop up" any residual resistance. In his mind, he considered using the techniques not at all unlike using Nazi scientific research. That being said, he was more than willing to be a "Fire Force" member, in taking back the country a little at a time.
Restless, he stood up, and began to walk through the hastily set up tent city he was in. Trying to discover the nooks and crannies of the place, looking into huge open tents where men worked feverishly. Other tents where men were bunked out, waiting to go back out. In the middle of the place was a pretty well guarded cage with about 25 zombies in it, men with shotguns around, guarding the pen.
Sinclair walked by the cage just as a zombie was being captured with a rope and pole. A couple of men in heavy leather armour, and face masks tried to taze the zombie, but to no effect. Fortunately, this zombie (a she) couldn't resist shackles even if she could resist electric shocks which would have shorted out a normal person's central nervous system. Men in white labcoats entered notes on clipboards, and into PDAs.
As they subdued the woman, another zombie broke out of the cage, moving incredibly fast. He tried to bite into the shoulder of one of the armoured men, but could only clamp down on a thick cowhide breastpiece eerily like the leather armour of 16th and 17th century musketeers, and Conquistadores. Behind the man, a police officer approached, holding a Remington 870, raised it to his shoulder, and with a single blast, took off the top of the zombie's head. They took the zombie girl away, while the men on top of the cage who had controlled the access gate were castigated by an Butter Bar Lieutenant. Part of Sinclair wondered what they were doing, but also figured this wasn't the right time to ask.
So, he moved on. until he came to a big tent with several large diesel generators outside of it. Walking in, he saw a large number of lab coats (as he thought to call them), and folks in obviously civilian clothes scurrying about amongst military attaches.
Trying his best to not look obvious, he simply stood back, and watched. There were 7 LCD big screen TVs set up and computers and sat phones everywhere. He looked on and heard a man in a suit begin to talk to a dark skinned man with straight gray hair over a satellite feed. "President Chodhury, I understand what you're saying, but we haven't had contact with the President for a week now, and the Vice President, and most of Congress were killed."
"You're referring to the bunker in West Virginia?"
"Uh.... yeah," said the man, somewhat embarrased.
"Look, my country is in chaos," said the man in perfect, if heavily accented English, "We might have many people, but they are all committed to stopping this.... tragedy."
"But, we told you about the Containment and Destruction Strategy."
"Yes, but you have to realize, you Americans have guns. Have had guns, for a while. You were able to inpress much of your citizenry into facing these... creatures. We are not an armed country. We had to hand out the better part of our Arsenal's stocks, and we currently have an ammo shortage. Most of our soldiers were on the Pakistani Border, and this disease broke out best we can tell in Bangalore. We've had to transfer many soldiers around, and destroy much of the infrastructure of our nation to work this. We cannot offer you assistance at this time."
"Alright, President." the man said, and the feed cut out. "Damn!"
"Calm down, Director." said a man in a naval uniform.
"Calm down? We are still getting our asses kicked. We don't have contact with Boston right now, New York is burning to the ground, and that includes Manhattan. The Capital. The Capital is literally overrun with zombies, and don't you make a joke right now, Rear Admiral. Have you been able to establish a connection with anyone?"
"No sir."
"And, we hand out the C&D Strategy to the world, and now no one wants to help us."
"Well, I believe the President was in talks-"
"The President is dead, Admiral Neal," said the man. Pulling his hair back. "Have the scientists found out anything yet?"
"A little. But not much. We thought this was viral. It's not. It's not bacterial either. They've isolated a cellular sized structure that seems to be-"
"Seems?" interrupted the man. "They don't know."
"This is best guess. They are running tests on it right now."
It was then that a rather preppy looking guy who looked no older than 20 turned around and said, "I've got the Prime Minister of Japan on right now."
"Great. Let me guess, he's begging for troops, saying they don't have enough troops, or enough weapons to train or arm a militia, right?"
On The Run
Carl Heinrich was on the run again. Not from a shadowy conspiracy, or hit squads. But, from zombies. He'd come this far, to now be running away from a horror movie. He hefted the M1-A in his hands and let off another round, this one smacking the man who'd owned the old pharmacy in town square between the eyes. Mr. O'Brien was really dead now. There were a pile of undead now really dead around the old Congressman.
He didn't think he'd ever done this much shooting in one day. And right now, there were 486 shell casings at his feet. He didn't know the exact number, but he hadn't seen anything approaching this many rounds in one place since serving in Vietnam. He had never watched the zombie flicks of a younger generation, and had not initially shot for the head. His military training had come back, and he'd aimed for center mass. Until he'd noticed it didn't put them down to stay. It didn't even put them down momentarily.
He hopped in his 2006 Ford F-150, and put it in reverse, running over a few bodies with a sickening thud, and then put it in drive, and rolled off at about 30 miles per hour, trying not to hit too many of the dead zombies around him.
Next to him was the .357 with his last 6 rounds. He had a Ruger 10/22 next to him as well, fully loaded. A single .22 round, if it got one of the zombies in the head was as effective a killer as the .308 battle rifle behind him. But he had 1,000 rounds of .22 next to the Ruger, and only part of a mag of .308 left. The .45 had long before run out of ammunition.
He headed for the local Wal-Mart, hoping that they hadn't already been cleaned out by other survivors.