The bottoms of the clouds glow from the dozens of fires still burning in the area. In the distance, blinking strobe lights, along with red and green position lights, of patrolling helicopters move across a darkened sky. Occasional streaks of red stream downward from points in the sky as remaining pockets of infected are uncovered. The airfield is a constant buzz as helicopters bring in supplies, along with periodic roars overhead as more and more jets continue to arrive.

Tomorrow will effectively be a day off as the forces consolidate for the next move against Whiteman Air Force Base. The only activity that will involve him personally will be a rotation manning the perimeter. The first phase of the lengthy operation has been completed. All he has to do is hold it together for a few more weeks and they’ll all get a chance to relax. Of the many books he’s read about apocalyptic events, this is not how he ever envisioned it. In his head, it had always been about small pockets of survivors trying to stay alive day by day. His reveries rarely involved extensive military operations utilizing superior firepower. With a last glance at a gunship firing rockets in the distance, Jennings lays down in an attempt to find dreamland.

*   *   *   *   *   *   *

Whiteman Air Force Base, Missouri

October 18

The landscape outside of the helicopter windows is much the same as that they’d left behind: patchwork fields of green and brown with a few wooded hills thrown in to break up the monotony of the farmlands. The covering of clouds dulls the colors to match Jennings’s mood. Although they’d basically had the day off yesterday, he feels nearly as tired as he had after the Grissom operation was complete.

The Air Force base they’re heading to is situated in a similar manner as the one they’d just left. Three larger towns form a lopsided triangle around the base, with smaller towns and residential areas popping up at nearly every crossroads. The plan is nearly the same as before: drop in along a highway midway between the city of Sedalia and the base. After pummeling the townships, helicopters will draw the infected toward the waiting companies.

Plumes of dark smoke from the morning’s strikes spiral upward from points across the land, merging with the overlying clouds. Bands of rain drift across the plains, obscuring everything underneath as a gray sheet were drawn across a doorway. Jennings observes a string of flashes erupt next to an interstate that cuts through the area, bombs exploding in a once quiet little town. Vehicles and parts of buildings are blown up and out, smoke roiling skyward to add to the other plumes. Jennings watches one car emerge from one of the explosions, vertically rocketing away from the blast and trailing smoke like a fiery incendiary thrown from a catapult.

The ground flashes in a blur underneath as his and the other transports drop low. All around, other helicopters flit this way and that in seeming chaos, but Jennings knows that it is in fact a strictly choreographed dance. Even so, he doesn’t see how so many choppers crowded in one area don’t slam into each other. The crew chief holds up one finger, meaning that they’re one minute from landing. Jennings checks his straps, pats the mags strapped to his vest, and absentmindedly rubs the trigger guard. It’s another mission that will end with complete exhaustion. It isn’t helping that he’s already dead tired at the outset.

The helicopter slows, then stops, and the back ramp drops. Jennings shuffles out with the others, having to drop the last foot into a wet plowed field. All around, other choppers hover just above fields and roadways, dropping Marines out of the back ends.

Jennings slogs his way through the field toward the intersection where they are to set up and, climbing the embankment, notices a small sign indicating that the highway he’s about to enter is named “Y.” That’s it, just highway Y.

Imaginative folks, he thinks. But, then again, why not? It’s no different than just having a number.

The company sets up as before. Humvees are sprinkled along the line, most strung along the crossing highway.