* * *
High above, the pilot of a helicopter had seen what had happened. He made a frantic call. “Whiskey Bravo, come in, Whiskey Bravo this is Tango Nine, come in goddamn it! Whiskey Bravo!” his hand shook so much he was in danger of dropping the microphone. He sat it down to steady himself. With no response, he turned the cyclic between his legs and maneuvered his chopper to follow the creatures. Command may deny his story, but he had proof. He had enough awareness to keep the camera recording. He double-checked to make sure he was still recording. He gave a half grin.
“Whiskey Bravo, this is Tango Niner declaring an emergency. Come in Whiskey Bravo.”
“Tango Niner,” said an authoritative voice, “this is Whiskey Bravo. Declare your emergency, come back.”
“Goddamn zombies! That’s my emergency, Whiskey Bravo. Zombies!”
He waited through the silence. The radio crackled again. A new voice with more authority came over the radio. “Break off, Tango Nine. Set course six, three, five and maintain radio silence until approach. ETA in three minutes, Tango Niner.”
“Copy that. Course six, three, five, radio silence. Tango Niner out.”
He worked his cyclic and turned away from his pursuit of the zombie soldiers. He gave a last glance to see them running and leaping great distances. He feared for all those in their path, but was grateful to be heading in the opposite direction.
The pilot hadn’t recognized the voice, but it was strong and gave him encouragement. He knew he would be all right. Soon, he would be with his military family.