It briefly considered leaving the city and going to the Followers in the south to lead them to victory, but it discarded the idea. The army needed a strong central base in the home city to allow it to advance upon the humans. It also considered recalling the Leader and its army to defend the city. The Followers in the south hadn’t visited nearly the damage on the humans as the northern army had; the way lay clear for the humans to bypass the disjointed Followers and come into the walls.

  Within the walls of the home city, the humans would find a considerable presence of Followers. The Chosen were perfect in mind and body, but the humans possessed technology that they could not use. It was the only drawback to the war that the humans had started by entering the home city.

  Still, the armies of the Chosen were strong and the Master relied on the physical strength of the Followers, not their intellect. It sent a quick thought to the Followers defending the city to be extra vigilant for the humans attacking and felt a sudden emptiness that it hadn’t noticed before.

  Followers far away acknowledged in their own way, but the ones outside of the Master’s home did not respond. The Master sent another thought to them to change their pattern to a more widespread distribution on the open area between the buildings, but it was met with general silence again. A few of the Followers replied, but not the overwhelming mental blanket that the Master had expected.

  The Master wondered if it had somehow lost control of the Followers outside. Had its mind drifted so far at the loss of the Chosen and their dwindling number that the Master had forgotten to hold its Followers accountable? It tried to reestablish its mental control of the Followers in the city and was met with a vacant area of the defense near the building.

  A loud crash down below where its Followers stayed brought the Master’s attention to the situation at hand. The humans were attacking! It concentrated for a moment and called all of the Followers in the home city to its location before it turned to the three Followers that remained with it always. It had chosen the three because they still possessed the mental capacity to climb the stairs from the first floor to the second; they would be the Master’s final line of defense if the Followers below weren’t enough to stop the humans.

  It tried to reach the Leader in the north to tell it what was happening, but the creature was too far away. The Master of the Chosen was in danger of being eliminated and the others wouldn’t even know.

  *****

  01 November, 1451 hrs local

  Texas Defense Zone

  Ozona, Texas

  What am I supposed to do with these people? Grayson thought. He’d received a personal phone call from the president, which was ironic since it wasn’t his first call from a Commander in Chief. He’d talked to President Holmes a couple of times while he was quarantined in Indianapolis. The new guy, Ryan Wilson, seemed likeable enough, even though Grayson hadn’t voted for him.

  The president asked him to use the town of Ozona as a base for the military operation against the Mexicans out in the desert. From what he could gather, the force that the Army planned to send was a bunch of privates just out of basic training and their Drill Sergeants. He’d spent twelve long, grueling years in the Army and knew the dangers of using brand new soldiers to perform missions, but the president said that the regular military was fully committed fighting the zombies so it was all that could be spared.

  President Wilson also let the details drop that it wasn’t the regular Mexican Army. Turns out, one of the Mexican drug lords, Ernesto Herrera, was trying to expand his semi-autonomous state from northern Mexico into the United States. That bit of news was both relieving and worrying for Grayson. Since it wasn’t the entire Mexican Army attacking, there was the possibility of stopping the incursion flat. However, since it was a drug cartel, the level of violence could be expected to increase dramatically. The Herrera Cartel tended to be savage and not leave many survivors in their wake.

  Grayson had also talked to the Governor of Texas about using the National Guard yesterday. He’d been told that an infantry company from the 36th was all they could spare since everyone else was busy killing zombies that washed up on the shoreline. The shoreline defense was extremely labor-intensive because of the length of the Texas coastline; they had to cover every square inch of property or else risk an outbreak behind the Appalachian Line. He did promise that elements of the Texas State Guard, which was a pseudo-military organization, designed to backfill the National Guard when they were mobilized and away. Beggars can’t be choosers.

  As soon as he informed the governor about the invading force, Grayson had begun to make the phone calls to pull in the ranchers and homeowners outside of the city limits. Most thought he was trying to pull some type of Halloween prank on them, but eventually, he’d been able to convince people to move their families into the relative safety of town. He also authorized the citizens to carry firearms, state weapons permits be damned.

  The cartel soldiers hadn’t attacked the town yet, but Grayson was sure that Ozona was their target. The next closest town was Sonora, thirty-five miles away, and they’d need a place to get food and refill their water supplies. From a drug distribution standpoint, Ozona was also a good place to be since it was on Interstate 10, right in the middle between San Antonio and El Paso. Anything produced or refined in Ozona could be sent to a major city within hours.

  The biggest problem in the commissioner’s mind was how to secure the town. American towns weren’t designed to become fortresses. Most towns, this one included, had multiple roads in and out with a lot of space between buildings. To make matters worse, Grayson’s city was in the middle of the Texas scrub desert, so there were no natural obstacles to use to their advantage. He might be able to block the roads so the cartel’s vehicles couldn’t use them, but they’d likely just drive around any obstacles outside of town and it would be impossible to stop the dismounted men with fencing and barriers alone.

  He’d decided that blocking the roads was just a waste of resources that he didn’t have, so while he was calling the homeowners, he had the sheriff begin placing defenders around the town. While the terrain around the town allowed the cartel to attack from any direction, Grayson was sure that if they attacked, the invading force would come from the most direct route in the south. Calvin Espinoza’s farm was about fourteen miles outside of town near Pandale Road, which was the only road that went through the hills to the south of town leading all the way to the Mexican border.

  Then, this morning, the first of the soldiers from Fort Sam Houston had arrived by, of all things, yellow school buses. They were young and had weapons with only a minimal amount of gear. Fort Sam was primarily a training base for the medical community, so they didn’t have all of the high-tech gadgetry that the rest of the Army used. The Drill Sergeants got their soldiers off the bus and into a formation, but it was immediately apparent to Grayson that they were looking for some type of direction.

  He’d spent the morning going over the town maps with the noncommissioned officers and the few officers that the military sent along with the trainees. The soldiers knew the basics of military tactics and were qualified on their weapons, so Grayson was confident that they’d be able to defend the town until a regular Army unit arrived.

  Grayson thought about his children, Jessica and little Gregory, and wondered if he should send Jamie out of town, maybe over to San Antonio. They didn’t need to get involved with this mess. But then again, he had no idea if the roads leading to the city were safe. The government—both state and federal—had failed to notice a large paramilitary force moving across the desert and it had taken the town drunks to raise the alarm. Would his family be safe or should they stay in Ozona where he could keep an eye on them?

  The phone on his desk rang and he picked it up before the second ring. “Donnelly.”

  “We got a situation, Mr. Donnelly.”

  “Hey, I was just wondering when you’d call,” Grayson answered. Sheriff Cochran’s report was due to him at 2:30 and it was almost 3 p.m. “What’s going on?”

  “Sorry about missing the call, we got into a skirmish with the cartel folks out near the cemetery. John Castillo got shot in the head during the fight. He’s dead, Grayson.”

  The pit of Grayson’s stomach dropped out. John was his best friend. They got together every Saturday with their families at the Ozona Country Club. The girls played tennis or swam with the kids while John and Grayson played two rounds on the club’s 9-hole golf course. He’d just spoke to John that morning and they’d joked about the Mexican “army” that threatened the town.

  “Shit,” he muttered while his mind raced through what needed to be done for Christy and the kids. First and foremost, though, he needed to ensure that the town was safe. He compartmentalized his personal feelings and addressed the matter at hand.

  “What’s the status of the town’s perimeter?” The bastards had come directly up Route 163 from the south like he thought they would.

  “We repulsed ‘em. Pretty sure that we got a few of them too,” the sheriff replied.

  “How large of a force did they come up the road with?”

  He could hear Joe relay his question to someone and then he returned, “They had six trucks full of men. When they got to the roadblock, they dismounted and tried to go around it. That’s when we opened up on ‘em.”

  “Wait. Did you say that we opened up on them?” Grayson asked.

  “Yessir. We defended our town against those invaders and sent a few of them to hell. Those Army kids may not look like much, but they can shoot!”

  Grayson hung his head and rested his elbows on the desk. He hadn’t thought about the implications of the defenders initiating the fight. Would some armchair quarterback flay them alive in court after this was over? He’d always imagined the scenario where the enemy would attack and they would be the ones to open fire, then the townspeople and soldiers would be forced to defend themselves—which was acceptable under Texas law. Of course, given the county’s history, he shouldn’t have been surprised. Crockett County was named after David Crockett, who died in the battle of the Alamo. Just looking around Ozona at the street names indicated the aggressive nature of the town: Santa Anna Street, Man O’ War Boulevard, Bold Ruler Street—there was even a road called War Admiral Street.

  He decided that the only thing that he could do would be to defend their actions in court if it ever came to that. The enemy action had been aggressive in nature by attempting to bypass obstacles and the townspeople had reacted accordingly. “Okay, good job,” Grayson responded to the sheriff’s enthusiastic endorsement of the recruits that they’d been sent. “Make sure everyone is prepared for another attack, maybe from a different direction this time.”

  “Already way ahead of you. You ain’t the only one with military experience. I’m a Marine and served in Desert Storm, remember?”

  “Yeah, I know you’re doing a great job out there, Joe. I just want us to be prepared for those bastards,” he replied. Then he changed subjects to the one that weighed heavy on his heart, “Has anyone notified Christy Castillo about John’s death?”

  “Not yet. I was gonna head over there to notify her after I made another round to make sure that everyone knew about the scrape that we got into with the cartel. That’ll motivate ‘em to keep a better watch on their areas.”

  “Good idea. I need you to focus on the town’s defense, Joe. I’ll go out to the Castillo’s and notify Christy and the kids.”

  “Well, I sure don’t envy you, Grayson. Thank you for doin’ that for me.”

  “Yeah… Alright, I’m gonna head over there before she learns about it through the rumor mill first.”

  “Yup. I’ll call you at six.”

  “Call my cell. I might still be at John’s house,” Grayson recommended.

  They hung up and he called Jamie. It would be better if both of them went over to break the news to Christy.

  *****

  01 November, 1539 hrs local

  The Castle, Smithsonian Institution Building

  Washington, Dead City

  Kestrel sat down on a small pile of rubble near the large hall’s edge. He took a ragged breath and finally looked at his surroundings. He wasn’t really into architecture, but the place must have been a beautiful building at one time. The light brown walls extended upwards to the cathedral-style arches that stretched impossibly high into the room above, their surface curving gently inwards until they connected in the center. All along the roofline, triangle-shaped openings allowed the autumn day’s light to filter in from above. The glass was mostly broken now, letting in years of dirt and rain that collected into pools of filth on the marble floors. At the end of the massive hallway, three large rectangular windows with arches along the top and a large circular window combined with smaller half-round windows set into one wall to let in even more light.

  He hadn’t gotten a chance to see much of the building, though, because the moment Kestrel opened the heavy wooden doors he was attacked by zombies. He ended up in this part of the building out of sheer dumb luck. Looking back on it, what he should have done was lured the creatures outside so he could go back to his sniper hide, but Kestrel hadn’t expected there to be so many of them inside and had allowed himself to get cut off from the doorway back to the National Mall. He’d fought with the large Bowie knife and his suppressed HK45 pistol, constantly needing to move from one position to the next because the creatures would flank him and not allow him enough room to do anything else from that location.

  Kestrel flexed his hand several times to loosen the stiffness that had crept into his fingers from gripping the knife for hours as he stabbed, slashed and parried the outstretched arms of the zombies that had been in the building. He rubbed his aching, overworked thighs. All the crouching and standing at the ruins of the Washington Monument where he’d killed thousands of zombies with his scoped rifle was beginning to take its toll on his old body.

  Until he’d gone inside the building, he’d just felt tired, now he felt old. Kestrel didn’t want to think about how he’d feel after he dealt with whatever was in residence in this building and then headed into the Metro tunnels. I’m too old for this shit, he muttered while he continued probing his body to determine if there were any broken bones. Some of the zombies had been ferocious, much stronger than their counterparts, which may explain why they were in the building protecting the Type One instead of the rotters that he’d dispatched outside.

  He stopped at his left side where he already knew that several of the ribs where broken. One of the big ones had tackled him and both of them landed across a metal rack—actually Kestrel had landed on the rack, the zombie landed on top of him. Besides his ribs and stiff, aching joints, the only other real area of concern was his right forearm.

  In the next room over, a zombie had pinned his arm against its body while trying to claw his face away. Another creature had crashed in and bit down hard onto his arm. The sharksuit kept the thing’s teeth from penetrating his skin, but the zombie ground its teeth back and forth, jerking like a wild dog pulling meat from a carcass. He’d eventually been able to get his left hand across to jam the empty pistol’s silencer through the eye socket and into the brain of the creature that had his arm trapped. Then he’d been able to transfer the knife from his right hand to his left and stabbed the fucker that used his arm as a chew toy.

  Several of the links from the sharksuit had embedded into his skin and ripped across as the creature twisted its head. Kestrel was concerned about the zombie’s saliva that had probably made its way into the wound. He had to finish this mission and it had been twelve or thirteen days since he’d taken the antidote, was that too far between doses to be effective? Or was it too close together to be used safely?

  He knew that the A-Coll antidote contained a healthy dose of the bacteria that caused lockjaw and tetanus—it said so right on the bottle. Also, multiple warning labels stated that if you took it before you were bitten, you could develop those illnesses. That’s the last thing he needed when he didn’t know if there was only one of the Type Ones in DC or if there were more of them—although, he was almost out of ammo. He’d have to break into a police station and get into their supply locker, but that wasn’t a big deal.

  Back to the matter at hand, he reminded his errant thoughts. Should he take another dose of the A-Coll antidote or let it ride? Once he started displaying the signs of infection, it was too late and the medicine wouldn’t do any good. How long had it been since he’d been gnawed on? Probably close to twenty minutes, he guessed. That was about the limit of where he needed to make a decision whether to take the antidote.

  He stared off across the hall at the piles of dead zombies. It was times like this when he really wished that he smoked. He’d seen it time and again with the men and women that he served with in combat. If he were a smoker, a simple cigarette would give him something to do to mellow out his thoughts and relax him. But he wasn’t, and the three things that he’d found to help him to relax were all dead.

  “Well, shit.” Kestrel’s voice echoed eerily around the open space. Surprisingly, the bodies of the dead and the broken windows, open to the outside, did little to reduce the reverberation of the sound. He made his decision and rummaged inside the huge backpack until he found the first aid kit. He couldn’t risk getting sick and dying before he finished exploring this place and killed whatever those things had been protecting. If he ended up contracting tetanus or lockjaw because he hadn’t needed to take the antidote, then so be it, this was a one-way trip anyways.

  Kestrel stood roughly and carried everything to a supply closet before going inside. Then he secured the door the best he could using a length of rope, one end tied to a metal shelving unit and the other around the doorknob. He didn’t know if he’d have the same reaction that he’d had the first time he took the A-Coll antidote—he’d been out for days with that dose. Once he was satisfied that the closet was as secure as he could make it, he pulled the battered uniform top off and then opened the sharksuit so he could pull his arm out of it.