Free Dead Again by George Magnum

that’s the end of it. Tag, keep trying the radio, and Spooky, keep checking the satellites. Find us a damn connection however you have to.”
    “Yes, sir,” Tag said, as he adjusted the controls, and altered the direction of the chopper.
    As Peterson leaned back into his seat and settled in, he stared out at the horizon. In the back of his mind, he had only the slightest awareness that Spooky hadn’t formally answered him. It bothered him a bit, but he was distracted. He had much more important things on his mind. And anyway, everything about Spooky bothered him.
    *
    As they flew East, right into morning sun, Peterson sat on the edge of the chopper, his legs dangling over, his hand resting on his machine gun, just like he used to when heading into battle. Behind him, he could hear soft Islamic prayers, coming from Ishmael, who was kneeling and bowing on his small carpet, praying. Despite himself, Peterson kind of liked it. It distracted him.
    Sharon came over and took a seat beside him, dangling her legs out, too. She didn’t look at him, but instead looked out at the horizon, then down at the changing landscape. He liked sitting beside her, like they used to do. They usually never spoke. They didn’t have to. They both knew what the other was thinking. In a different life, and in a different place, they’d be together. Maybe settle down, have some kids. Some normalcy.
    But in this lifetime, it just wasn’t meant to be. They both just weren’t wired that way. They were professional soldiers.   Assets to be used by the government. It ran into their very DNA. They were born into violence, trained to be warriors, and ordered to be on the hunt. A life of sitting still just wasn’t meant to be for either of them.
    “You made a good call,” she said, still looking ahead.
    He turned and looked at her, but she didn’t look back.
    “You mean, not heading back?” he asked.
    She nodded, expressionless, still not looking his way.
    He nodded back, grateful for at least one consenting opinion.
    “Next time we go down, I’m not taking any chances,” she said. “If one of these men makes another mistake, I’m not letting them risk this mission. Just so you know where I stand,” she said, a hard-edge to her voice.
    That was Sharon. Always the cold, formal, professional warrior. She was a hard woman to get close to. But he loved her for that.
    “I already know,” he said.
    Beneath them, the skyline changed, as they crossed the Hudson River. Peterson looked down, and saw the George Washington Bridge spread out before them. He couldn’t believe it. Black smoke rose in patches, originating from blazing fires. It was completely log jammed with cars, and worse, the cars were smashed into each other, chaotically wedge into the barriers, twisted in impossible directions. Many of the car doors were just wide open. The cars had been abandoned. The bridge was useless. He could make out a unit of soldier’s on the bridge, holding a line, firing their machine guns. They looked like National Guard.
    They were shooting at hordes of zombies, hundreds and hundreds of zombies, walking up and down the bridge, between the cars. What was once a functioning bridge between New York and New Jersey was now a freaking war zone.
    If things were this bad already, before they’d even crossed the city line, Peterson could only imagine what would be in store on the island of Manhattan.
    “Holy shit,” came the Puerto Rican tinged voice. It was Angelo. “There is the Bronx, homey,” he said, “or what’s left of it. That’s where I was raised. Those are my people.”
    “You mean were your people,” Cash said, as they flew over another war zone of what was once the Bronx.
    “Yo, shut the fuck up,” Angelo said.
    Cash just smiled back.
    Below them, the Bronx was, indeed, a war zone. Cars were strewn everywhere, and the streets were occupied by zombies and people running in all directions. Sweeping fires dotted the Bronx, coughing up plums