Turning Point (Book 3): A Time To Live

by Wandrey, Mark

  “There,” Prager said and pointed. Anna froze the frame. “Look in the water.” A dark shape was visible.

  “Too big for a body,” Perone said.

  “Shark?” Anna wondered. “If the Marines went zombie…”

  “No,” Prager said. Shape’s wrong. Looks like a sea lion, maybe?”

  “Sea lions don’t attack people, do they?” Anna asked. The other two shrugged in unison. She ran the footage forward and stopped on the strange heat signature all over the side of the boat. “What’s that?”

  “I know,” Prager said. “Saw it in weapons training. What you’re seeing is warm blood splashed all over the side of the RHIB.”

  They stared at the screen for a very long time before Anna spoke. “I better call the chief and report this.” She reached for the phone just as a series of gunshots rang out.

  * * *

  Nightfall, Friday, May 3

  Burlington Northern and Santa Fe Rail Transfer Yard

  Amarillo, TX

  “Watch the right!”

  Cobb shifted his weapon to the right, lowering it just enough to get a wider view, and saw at least a hundred infected sweeping up the overpass several hundred yards to the east. Goddamn it! This was the second time the infected appeared to be trying a flanking maneuver. He’d first seen this evolution in Texas, and he really didn’t like seeing the mindless cannibals working together.

  Their firing position was high enough that there was no way the infected could climb up. Not even a mindless cannibal could climb a massive, round, concrete pylon. From what Cobb had seen, it would be an unsurmountable obstacle. The mob rushing far to one side and up the overpass embankment argued to the contrary.

  “Running low on grenades,” Zim yelled over the roar of gunfire. They all wore modern hearing protection. It was one of the few useful things Sergeant Groves had provided. Her people had a whole case of the so-called ‘smart earbuds’ which were high tech, noise-cancelling earbuds that reduced the roar and din of gunfire to popping sounds, thereby allowing soldiers to hear and talk. Yay technology. Just in case, though, they all carried plastic plugs as backup.

  “I know,” Cobb confirmed. “Tango! Targets of opportunity, three o’clock!”

  “On it,” Corporal Tango said, and the Marines pivoted to fire as a unit. Nine M4s wielded by well-trained marksman chewed up the infected before more than a couple could reach the top. It cost the Marines two magazines each, over 500 rounds to drop 200 or so infected.

  Confident the problem was dealt with, Cobb went back to his weapons scope. He dropped several more infected before his magazine ran dry. “Reloading!” he called out as he did a quick swap. Like the rest, he stashed the empty magazine. You didn’t survive what they’d survived without learning to save empty mags and everything else.

  “Leakers on the left!”

  Yet another group, smaller than the last but moving fast, had apparently gone all the way around the buildings at the base of the overpass to the interchange. They were now advancing quickly, and to his astonishment, quietly! Gods he missed CAS, close air support. A couple of fighters with precision, laser-guided bombs or an A-10 Warthog would have been nice. A little Brrrrrt! would have made the night better. Everyone loved the sound of the A-10’s 30mm gun.

  “Are they using tactics?” Zim asked, his voice full of astonishment.

  “I hate to admit it, but they might be,” Cobb said. “I started seeing signs that they were just before I was rescued.” He didn’t mention the mutations. He’d save that for later.

  The army soldiers dropped the new group with considerably less ammo. However, their success came at a cost. The main force was now underneath them and below their angle of fire. “Switch to defend the sides,” Cobb ordered. “Marines to the east, army to the west.”

  He did a quick tactical evaluation. They had a few seconds. “Ammo check!” While the men counted their mags, he called on the radio. “Recovery team, update?”

  “First generator airborne,” was the immediate reply.

  Cobb looked through his Acog, which was set to light-intensifying now that the sun was gone. One of the massive, yellow, Caterpillar generators was ascending into the night sky.

  “How long for the other two?”

  “Number two is about half rigged. Say five minutes for them to get number one unhooked up top and lower the rig frame back down.” The man was quiet for a moment. “At least another 15 for the last one.”

  His men finished counting their remaining magazines. They had an average of six each. They’d started with 15. “Noted. Keep me updated,” he told the recovery team, then addressed his NCOs. “Have the men level out while we have a breather.” He wanted everyone with roughly the same number of mags, levelling would do it.

  “Roger that,” Zim said.

  “Got it,” Tango agreed.

  “They’re coming from the south now,” Tango said.

  Cobb spun and observed the railway to the south. A leading edge of hundreds, if not thousands, of infected were coming. He cursed under his breath. “I was afraid we’d draw attention to ourselves,” he said. “Check further out east and west, along the freeway.”

  “Too much smoke,” was the report. The shooting had caused a few fires in the surrounding, abandoned businesses, and the resulting smoke was enough to obscure distant observations.

  Cobb switched channels. “Cobb to Schardt.”

  “Go, sir,” the master sergeant replied.

  “You have eyes along the freeway east and west of us?”

  “Let me check with the gondola.” Long seconds passed during which Cobb went through another magazine, as did most of the men. “Oh, shit,” Schardt replied.

  “Yeah. How many?”

  “A thousand plus to the west, more to the east. We’re coming down.”

  “Negative, I don’t want all of us down here if things start to go sideways.” Cobb knew from talking with his sergeants that the platform was strong enough to hold a hundred men, but there wasn’t the square footage. “Send the platform down with magazines, grenades, and two of the M-240s.”

  “Gonna have to get Groves to bring them.”

  Cobb suppressed a snarl. He’d sent someone to tell her to get the squad support weapons ready. She hadn’t replied before they needed to push off or risk losing the light. “Tell her to move her fucking ass,” Cobb snapped. “Master Sergeant, our situation is extremely kinetic. I want the platform on the way down in less than 5 minutes. We’re going to be black on ammo not long after.”

  “Roger that, Colonel.”

  “Glad they found you, Colonel,” the nearest Marine said between volleys of fire.

  “Damned straight,” an army private concurred. As he glanced at the private, he saw the Arkansas guardsmen glaring at him. When Cobb looked straight at him, the man’s eyes returned to the battle.

  “You men ever deploy like this before?” Cobb asked.

  “Negative,” Tango said. “We only went down in small fireteams with minimal firepower. The master sergeant wanted to send large groups, but the sergeants stood on a unanimous agreement to commit in force.”

  “Let me guess,” Cobb said. “Groves never agreed.”

  “It’s not for me to speak ill of a fellow sergeant,” Zim said.

  Well, that makes it worse. Cobb didn’t say anything more out loud. Groves wasn’t playing by the same book. He decided he would need to address the situation later, when thousands of former citizens of Amarillo weren’t trying to eat him.

  “Down to four mags,” a Marine called out.

  “Three,” an army guy yelled.

  “Grenades,” Cobb ordered. “Buy us a little breathing space!”

  The staccato Pwunk! of the M203s lobbing 40mm grenades sounded a second later. The men’s aim was accurate, and most of their grenades impacted the end of the bridge embankments in both directions. The blasts were brilliant in the soldiers’ night vision, each explosion sending brightly colored bodies cartwheeling through
the dark sky.

  Minutes ticked by and the soldiers went from burst fire to more selective semi-automatic. There were piles of bodies on both ends of the bridge. They’d been low on night vision, so Cobb elected for a starlight scope on his rifle. Most of the rest had PVS-7/14 helmet mounts. They had the binocular-style optics lowered over their eyes, making them glow like beady-eyed, green aliens.

  Cobb checked his watch. “Five minutes, Master Sergeant!”

  “M-240s on board. They only brought eight cans of ammo. I sent some grenades set too.”

  “Just lower it, now!”

  “Big wave to the east!” Tango barked.

  “Mother of God!” a Marine intoned.

  Cobb raised his rifle and gasped. It looked like the tide rolling through the scope’s night vision. Thousands, maybe ten thousand, infected rushed toward them. The satanic, growling screams of the enraged zombies turned his bowels to water. Their firefight had rung the proverbial dinner bell, and the diners had arrived.

  “Send the platform down as fast as you can. Marines, grenades east,” he ordered. “Fire at will!” The first volley of nine high-explosive grenades didn’t seem to touch the zombies. The infected ran into the slaughter, then through it. Less than a football field length away, grisly death sprinted toward them.

  “Little help?” he called to Schardt.

  “Incoming,” the master sergeant replied. Bodies exploded. A split second later the telltale chugging of a .50 caliber M-2 Browning machinegun reached them from above.

  “Get some!” a Marine cheered.

  The gunner worked his weapon back and forth slowly. The ball ammo had tracers mixed in every five rounds which caused brilliant streaks in their night vision. Even rounds that missed their targets, which were few since there were so fucking many, sent up shrapnel from the concrete roadbed which injured the nearby infected.

  Based on the rate of fire, two of the big, beautiful Ma-Deuces had to be chugging away above. They and the constant grenade barrage staggered, then slowed the advance. Cobb glanced toward the salvage operation. The second generator was climbing slowly into the sky.

  “Second generator airborne,” the recovery team confirmed.

  “Any zombies?” Cobb asked.

  “No, you seem to have their full attention.”

  “Well, that’s a load off my mind,” Zim said.

  Cobb chuckled. The men were professional, no doubt about it. He’d been in a convoy which came under fire in Afghanistan. The ambushers were hiding in a couple of houses, which were subsequently lit up by an A-10 Warthog. As the building came apart and burst into flames, a burning camel came running out. The men were laughing about it hours later back at base. “I said I wanted a Marlboro, not a Camel.” Soldiers’ humor, they called it. As black as the depths of space.

  “They’re coming from the west side too,” Zim warned.

  “Platform coming down,” a Marine also warned.

  “Heads up,” Cobb said, moving clear of the rapidly descending, metal platform. “Army, grenades west.” The platform hit the overpass with a resounding Bang! He instantly vaulted over the side to see what was inside. “Schardt, you’re awesome,” he said when he saw the two M240s that were set up and loaded, one to each side. “Tango, Zimm, get those 240s going! One on each side.” He had to yell to be heard over the roar of gunfire. “Clear the danger zone!” he barked to the Marines. “Everyone on the platform. Detail to pass out magazines.”

  Zim tripped as he came over to man a machine gun, sprawling on the floor where two soldiers fell on him. Cobb didn’t hesitate, he dropped to his knees behind the other machinegun and quickly checked its status. He gave the charging handle a jerk to verify that it was loaded and flicked the safety. Minus the night vision scope on his rifle, he only had the flashes of gunfire and the .50 caliber tracers coming from above to see by. The picture was no better than it was with night vision, though slightly more terrifying. The infected were less than 50 yards away.

  Cobb’s lips pulled back from his teeth in a rictus of barely suppressed terror as time slowed. The Marines took forever to clear the danger zone. The infected seemed to close in relentlessly as the Marines moved slowly aside. As the last Marine cleared the arc in front of Cobb’s gun, the leading infected were so close, he could see the whites of their eyes.

  Cobb squeezed the trigger. Machinegun training always stressed one thing above all else—trigger control. “Slow, controlled bursts” was the line you heard over, and over, and over again. Bursts kept the barrel from overheating and prematurely wearing out. They also allowed the gunner to pick off targets effectively. With only 200 rounds in a can, continuous fire would burn quickly through the ammo. The 7.62x51 rounds the M240 fired were considerably more powerful than the M4’s 5.56x45 rounds. However, they were of little use if they penetrated soft body tissues without taking down the target. The training didn’t cover a zombie charge.

  Cobb held the trigger back and worked the gun barrel from side to side like a windshield wiper. The part of his mind not scared absolutely shitless tried to measure the movements, keeping in mind the M240’s rate of fire which was around 700 rounds a minute. You’ve got about 16 seconds. Eleven rounds per second was deceptively fast when all of Amarillo had been transformed into flesh-eating monsters eager to snack on your face.

  The rounds didn’t tear people apart, unlike the .50 caliber rounds still raining down from above. In the near darkness, he could see bullets punching bloody holes through chests, stomachs, necks, and faces. The lower half of the face of a man who could have been a TV anchor exploded in blood and bone. The abdomen of a teenage girl who might have grown up to be a mother, an actress, or a scientist was torn open, and her intestines spilled out in pale rolls and tangled around her feet. An elderly infected was hit in the shoulder, the bullet dislocating his arm and leaving it dangling by shreds of flesh and tendon. Arterial blood sprayed like a fan in the strobe light of gunfire.

  Cobb laughed. He didn’t know why or where it came from. He felt tears running down his cheeks. It was pure butchery. He was distantly aware of the belt running out, the heat of the barrel singeing his fingers as he ripped up the feed cover. A Marine appeared, slammed another ammo can in place, and slipped the beginning of the belt onto the feed tray.

  The smells—blood, cordite, sweat, fear, shit—combined to burn the images into his mind like a plasma torch. He’d remember the tableau for the rest of his days.

  The feed cover slammed closed. “Go!” the Marine barked, slapping Cobb’s helmet.

  Cobb yanked the charging handle and pulled the trigger again. The infected were trying to climb over the dead and were being ripped apart by machinegun and small arms fire in their desperately insane desire to reach the 20 besieged soldiers.

  A hand reached out and grabbed the M240’s barrel just behind the flash suppressor. He clearly heard the sizzle of skin over the din of battle. He fired the gun, and the hand fell away. But then an infected used the newly dead one as a launching platform to hurtle over Cobb. He heard the grunt and yell as the infected hit the Marine who’d reloaded his weapon. In an instant, the infected were pouring over the side.

  An infected man hit Cobb in the chest like a football lineman tackling a running back, bowling him backward and knocking the M240 over on its side. Teeth snapped at his face. Cobb couldn’t reach his pistol. He grabbed one of his two knives and plunged it into the infected’s chest over and over. The body jerked, falling away and taking the knife with it.

  He rolled to his knees and clawed his M9 from his chest rig. He knew instantly he would miss his own Sig. He’d gone with the M9 so he’d have the same ammo and magazines as the rest of his command. He released the safety as he drew the weapon, rammed it into the face of another infected, and double-actioned it. Teeth and blood flew. He followed with a single-action shot. The infected jerked and fell. Another snapped at the gun like it was Cobb’s hand. He killed it and two more replaced it.

  For a time outside time, the m
en fought. The battle was hand-to-hand, gun-to-chest, knife-to-throat. The sound of gunfire became intermittent, replaced by the grunts of soldiers punching and stabbing and the ever-present screaming howls of the insane infected.

  The soldiers roared and pushed the infected back. The Marines had attached bayonets to their M4s and were using them like pikes. It felt somehow medieval. Cobb took a shuddering breath and keyed his mic. “Recovery team, how long?”

  “Finishing attachment of last generator. Five more minutes?’

  “We’re overrun,” he said, extending his right arm and shooting an infected woman in the face. “Repeat, we’re overrun. Have to withdraw.”

  “I think we’ve got this. Go!”

  “Roger that. Schardt, you copy our last?”

  “Affirmative. Lifting!” the master sergeant said. The platform lurched and began to ascend.

  It groaned under the weight of 20 soldiers, extra ammo, grenades, and at least 200 infected. The steel cables linking them to Shangri-La, 500 feet above, sang and quivered under the unexpected strain. Hundreds more infected tried to climb up and over those already hanging on. The cable attachment nearest Cobb made an ominous pinging sound.

  “Clear some of them off, or they could break the cables!” Cobb ordered.

  All around the edges, the soldiers drew handguns or used their bayonets to shoot and hack at the hangers on. Dozens were killed and fell away, taking more with them. He was beginning to think they’d make a clean getaway when things went south.

  A large group of infected had pushed back the Marines on their side. Tango barked for them to give him some space, and he brought the M-240 to bear. It wasn’t something Cobb would have done in the most insane of situations. However, Marines lived for those moments. They started at crazy and moved on from there.

  The big 7.62mm rounds tore through the infected like a scythe. He was so intent on doing his job, Tango didn’t see the leaker who got past one of the Marines and bowled into him from the side. He let go of the trigger almost immediately, but not soon enough to avoid hitting one of the four heavy, steel cables supporting their platform.