White Wasteland Jeff Kirkham (book series for 12 year olds TXT) 📖

Green Beret like Jeff would never see a Navy SEAL like Chad as anything other than an over-trained frat boy.

But when the stock market crashed and hand-to-hand fighting became a serious possibility, Jeff had quietly pulled the swords down and handed them out to the Homestead defenders. They were the only bladed weapons the Homestead had in quantity and they were light, lethal and had a longer reach than fighting knives.

Chad jammed his gladius back in the sheath on his battle belt and returned to scanning the Homestead with his binos.

As the fragmented radio calls came in, Chad pieced it together: the Homestead had been overrun by zombies. That’s what the security guys had taken to calling the starving people of Salt Lake City: zombies.

Jeff had assigned Chad command of the garrison at the Orchard Hospital; an asset that they’d taken in the early days of the collapse. Half-a-dozen fighting men from the Homestead maintained security at the hospital, essentially bottling up and preserving vital equipment and supplies, waiting for the return of civil order.

Chad could hear the pops of rifle and handgun over a mile away. After another ten minutes, the rate of gunfire slowed. That could’ve been good news or bad news. The big house hadn’t caught fire, at least. The little smoke he’d seen hadn’t burned long. A mob wouldn’t bother putting out a fire. That might mean his friends weren’t completely overrun.

The door to the roof of the hospital burst open and one of the security team stammered, “The ham radio dude from the Homestead says they pushed the zombies back. They’ve retaken the Homestead.”

Chad headed for the stairs, anxious to know more. When he reached the radio room, he grabbed the mic.

“How the hell do you get this thing to work?” Chad pressed buttons at random.

“Dude. Stop pushing buttons.” The radioman, Rex, covered the console with his hands. “You should’ve done your ham cert like the rest of us. Let me.” Chad threw up his hands and stepped aside while the Rex restored the settings.

“Find out if my family’s okay.” Chad ordered.

“Hold on,” Rex made a calming motion. “Give me a second.” He spoke into the mic. “Homestead, this is Red Garrison, can you give us sit rep.”

A moment later, the Homestead radio operator replied. “Red Garrison, this is Homestead. We’re rooting out the last of the mob. The Homestead’s been returned to our control.”

“Homestead, Red Garrison. Can you provide status of our families?”

“Negative. Situation unknown. There are a lot of dead and wounded up here.”

Chad stared at the console, burning a hole in it with his eyes. “Ask them what we lost.”

“Homestead, did we lose the food or the guns.?”

“Status of the guns unknown. I don’t think we lost much more than tonight’s dinner.”

“Okay, Homestead. Please advise when you know more.”

“Roger. Homestead out.”

“That’s it?” Chad whirled around and barked to the men surrounding him. “Pull everyone back, tighten the perimeter and prepare to head up with medical supplies. Delta and Bravo Teams hold down the fort. The rest of us are going up the hill to render aid.”

Jeff knew he was dreaming, and he also knew it was a memory.

He was in Iraq, sometime during his many deployments. It was late in the morning—too late for an assault. The black of night had already given way to the milky grays and muddled oranges of dawn.

Jeff posted up behind a short pillar on the porch of an Iraqi compound, watching for squirters. He and his team of indigenous Iraqi soldiers had been ordered to set a perimeter and to shoot anyone escaping from the back of the compound.

Jeff watched the courtyard through the familiar green-and-grain fog of night vision; a dream inside a dream. As the morning light increased, he’d flip back to his Mark 1 Eyeball. For now, the NVGs provided an advantage.

A heavy wood door burst open and a stringy young man ran toward Jeff raising a rifle in his direction. While one part of Jeff’s mind thought of his seventeen-year-old nephew back in the states, the other part focused on the rifle and the boy’s hands. His red dot floated over the running shape. Reflexively, he squeezed off a burst.

Pop. Pop. Pop-pop.

The boy’s gait wobbled. He slowed, then pitched sideways into the hard-packed sand. It looked exactly like the fall Jeff had seen his sister’s boy take a couple months ago in a soccer game in Sandy, Utah while Jeff was home on leave.

Trip, stumble, trip, lurch, trip again, fall.

One of the SEALs inside the house shouted, “Coming out.” Jeff’s AK swiveled toward the building but held his rifle at the low ready. The SEAL pushed the door open with his boot and reached a gloved hand out the door. Then he peered around the doorframe, noticed the dead boy and then looked up at Jeff. The SEAL gave Jeff a curt wave and disappeared back inside.

The dream-scene wavered. It felt like slipping sideways, only the light remained the same: cool orange and slanting. Jeff found himself on another field of battle, daylight scratching away at the night. The air was cool and humid, so it wasn’t Iraq. The color wasn’t right; more vivid. A low fog rolled across the field.

Scores of contorted bodies lay spread around Jeff’s feet. The copper tang of bile and blood hung in the air, hanging in the fog. Jeff took a gulp of air. His lungs burned and the chill of the morning tingled against his sheen of sweat. His skin exploded in gooseflesh and he shuddered. His muscles screamed, but the adrenaline of combat thundered in his system like a freight train. He knew this drug, and he awaited the come-down.

Jeff snatched an ax lodged in the neck of a body. The blade was etched in scrollwork and the handle was wrapped in leather. In his other hand, Jeff held a small leather and wood shield.

The battlefield was silent. Not a man moaned nor a woman wailed. A horse snorted behind him.

Jeff whipped