Zombie Killers: HEAT Read Free Page A

was shocked at how old he looked; last time I had seen him had been just before the Second Plague. Since then, I had pretty much avoided him.
    Scarletti’s face had been burned badly when the Bradley he was riding in had been struck by an RPG in Iraq and caught fire. As a result, half of lower right face was a mass of scar tissue that barely moved. It had never done anything to sap his vitality and drive, though, and after the Zombie Apocalypse, he had taken command of Task Force Liberty, charged with clearing NY and NYC; his predecessor had met an untimely end at my hands. He had also managed to prevent the Second Plague from breaking out in New York, and had been the driving force to restore Vice President Epson to the Presidency.
    Now, he looked like he hadn’t slept in a month, and his skin was ashen; his uniform hung on him. Circles were under his eyes and it took him a minute to react to our presence. He just waved us to some chairs in front of his desk, motioning for us to sit down. We did, cautiously. Every time we had dealt with this man, I had wound up in extremely dangerous situations, and both Brit and I feared that this would be a repeat.
    Taking a drink of water, the Chief of Staff of the Army opened his mouth to speak, then stopped, looking at Brit. The next words that came out of his mouth surprised me, and Brit, also.
    “How are your kids?” he asked, and waited for us to answer. It was such an unusual opening gambit form him that we were both taken aback.
    “They’re fine,” said Brit, guardedly, “and if this is some blackmail plan you’ve got involving them, you’re not going to walk out of this office alive.”
    “Ms. O’Neil, I’m well aware of the garrote you have disguised around your waist, and the other knife you didn’t give your husband. The one taped to the small of your back. However,” he continued, and smiled a skeletal grin, “I don’t expect to leave this office alive in any case, regardless if it’s you or cancer.”
    At my questioning look, he said, “Too much exposure to burn pits and heavy metals in the desert. Nothing they can do about it, and I’m running on stimulants and coffee now. Just have to get through this one last campaign, and I’m asking you for help. Not ordering.”
    I took a deep breath, and looked over at Brit. She looked right back at me, face saying nothing. I guess this one was on me. “No field Ops. That baby faced Captain told me you needed me to plan the scout teams. That’s the deal, no field operations.”
    His wasted face quirked upward a half smile, and he nodded. “You’ve been through a lot, and I’m not going to ask you for anything more. However, we need to end this quickly. We need the teams to find the MR headquarters, and then we’ll pound them with cruise missiles.”
    Brit stood up and walked over to the map. Apparently she had changed her mind about killing Scarletti, just like that. “What’s the deal with these yahoos, anyway?” she asked, tracing her finger across the line of the Potomac. “Another jumped up warlord or former military leader claiming his own kingdom? We’ve dealt with them before.”
    “I wish it were so easy. No,” said Scarletti, leaning back in his chair, “these guys are the real deal. The President was content to let them die out as long as they sat there in their mountains, while we absorbed all the European refugees and consolidated our own population.”
    After the second plague, England, which had been an unaffected refuge during the Zombie Apocalypse, had fallen, and fallen hard. More than a million refugees had arrived in Providence and New York Harbor, and we were slowly absorbing them into our own culture, settling them up and down the Hudson Valley, and reopening the coal mines in Pennsylvania. They also made up a good portion of the Army; Brits had always been our allies and damn good soldiers.
    “Now,” he continued, “the situation has changed. The J-2 think it’s because their