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Fort Bragg, North Carolina. For ease of communication among peers, the name had been shortened to simply SWCS, or more informally, ‘Swick’.
    “Terminator, Summit Six. You say you’re a trainer at the Swick, that correct? How’d a trainer get into the field? Over.”
    “Summit, Terminator. Long story, Six. But here I am, and I’m wondering if you guys might be able to give me a hand, over.”
    “Terminator, this is Summit Six. Listen, we have our hands pretty full at the moment. I’ll try and find a Special Forces liaison to talk this over with, but we have several synchronized movement to contact ops underway right now. You probably know better than we do, but these things are damned hard to kill, over.”
    “Summit, Terminator. You got that wrong, Six, they’re easy to kill—you just have to hit them in the head to put them down for the count. Nothing else works, not even major deboning injuries, unless you blast them to pieces. And listen, you need to watch out for something. Ninety-nine percent of those things are brainless, but some of them can come back with skills. We were shagged by members of our own ODA, and they still knew how to use guns and get their stalk on. Let me know if you got that. Over.”
    There was a long moment of silence, and then the infantry commander came back on the air. “Uh, Terminator Five, this is Summit Six. Understand you just said that some of the zeds can conduct…coordinated offensive operations, is that correct? Over.”
    “Summit, Terminator. Roger that, you are correct. Certain zeds can retain pre-existing high-level skills, though they are not one hundred percent mission capable. But they can operate weapons and machinery—we had stenches roll up on us in a taxi cab and open up with assault rifles. I would advise you to make the appropriate notifications. Over.”
    Summit Six didn’t sound thrilled at the prospect. “Roger that last, Terminator.”
    “Summit, what can you do to help me out here? Terminator’s single gun with two civilian noncombatants, and it feels like we’re in the middle of stench city. Do you have any aviation assets you can send my way? Over.”
    “Terminator, Summit. Negative, we have zero airlift, only attack. All our transport assets were surged down to participate in the evacuation op you must have been part of. We’re trying to get into Central Park to recover some airframes, but that’s going to take a while.” Gartrell grunted to himself as Summit Six spoke. He knew all too well that dozens of helicopters, from small scouts to massive medium lift helicopters that could carry upwards of 50 troops were on the deck in Central Park. The assembly area had been overrun by stenches that had broken through the various cordon sanitaires set up throughout the city. It had been obvious then that the military brass calling the shots had underestimated the sheer mass the horde could bring to bear.
    “How long can you hold out at your current pos, Terminator? Over.”
    Gartrell rose and walked to the window. He slowly peeled back some of the tape that held the window shade in place and peered out into the bright day, squinting against the harsh sunlight. The street outside—Second Avenue—was full of abandoned cars. At the corner nearby, where East 86th Street intersected with the broad avenue, a roadblock had been set up with New York City snow plows. It had been overrun a day ago, and judging by the amount of brass cartridges that twinkled in the sunlight, it had been some fight. The rains of the preceding night had washed away most of the blood, but Gartrell saw strips of cloth, shoes and boots, and fallen weapons lying on the street.
    And of course, the zombies were everywhere. Hundreds of them. Most milled about aimlessly, waiting for some clue as to where their next meal might be. They shambled about like automatons, moving between the vehicles in the traffic-choked street. Most kept their eyes down low, looking for food at ground