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take a full inventory of his meager possessions when the sun came up. But for now, he needed as much sleep as he could get. He stretched out on the bed fully clothed and stared into the blackness, listening to the sounds of the building and the city beyond. The artillery continued exploding in the distance. Gartrell figured the 10th Mountain Division or whoever was launching the attack was going for pure neutralization fire. He hoped the arty would be effective against the zeds, but knowing them as he did, he rather doubted it.
    And with that cheery thought in his head, Gartrell fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
    ###
    When he awoke, it was daytime.
    At first, he couldn’t remember where he was. He looked about the small bedroom, blinking against the dim light that filtered past the window shade. He saw his gear lying on the bureau next to his head—his radio, his web belt, the grenades, magazines of ammunition, his knapsack, flares, bottled water, white plastic quick ties, paper bags with the Starbucks logo on them—and wondered how it all got there. Then he remembered the woman from the night before, the one he had met in the blacked-out Starbucks, the one who had been prowling through the store looking for lemon cake. He sat up in the bed and listened, but the apartment was quiet. He checked his watch. 9:37am. As Gartrell swung his legs over the edge of the bed, he was struck by something else.
    The artillery barrage had stopped.
    That could have happened for several reasons, one of them being the arty emplacements had been overrun by the walking dead. Or they had run out of ammunition. Or the advancing echelons of the dead had been destroyed, though he thought that unlikely. Or the artillery batteries were repositioning, or had ceased fire so other units could move in and secure the zone…
    Enough guessing. Let’s see what we can find out.
    He donned his radio headset and switched on the transceiver. He scanned through the channels, and was overjoyed to discover several frequencies had become operational. He announced himself on them using his mission call sign, but he received no response on the first two frequencies he tried.
    The third time was the charm, however. On another frequency, he captured someone’s attention.
    “Call sign Terminator Five, this is Summit Three-Seven. Say again, over.”
    “Summit Three-Seven, this is Terminator Five. I’m solo in New York City after a busted mission on the Upper East Side. What’s the situation in the world? Over.”
    “Terminator Five, this is Summit Three-Seven, a command and control element with the two-eight-seven infantry. This is an operational frequency for the Summit battalion. You sure you’re in the right place? Over.”
    “Summit Three-Seven, Terminator Five. I was part of an alpha detachment that went tango uniform about twenty-four hours ago. My frequencies are dead, because there are no other SOF units in the zone. Looks like you lightfighters are all I’ve got. If you have another frequency I can roll to, give it to me and I’ll give it a shot, over.”
    Another voice came over the radio. “Terminator, this is Summit Six. Give me your name and unit, over.”
    Gartrell’s spirits rose slightly. He was now speaking to the commander of the Summit Battalion, which he knew to be the Second Battalion, 87th Infantry, a tenant unit of Fort Drum and part of the 10th Mountain Division. The infantry battalion CO would be lieutenant colonel, maybe someone with enough horsepower to get something done about his situation.
    “First Sergeant David Gartrell, current senior NCO, Echo Company, First Battalion, First Special Warfare Training Group at the Swick. Was pulled out of my normal duty position and assigned to Operational Detachment Alpha OMEN on an emergency basis, over.” Before deploying into the field with Major Cordell McDaniels, Gartrell had been a trainer of Special Forces soldiers, posted at the John F. Kennedy Special Warfare Center and School,