Onslaught

by Drew Brown

  Juliette squeezed in front of Budd, offering him a smile. “Monsieur Ashby, do you remember the night we met?” They were close enough that none of the others could overhear them. Father McGee was removing some of his robes and replacing them with a jacket and padded trousers, while Jack and Annabel had selected a pile of clothing to change into. Becky sat on the seat nearest the hatch, swinging her arms from side to side and watching her sleeves flop about.

  “How could I forget, babe?”

  “When we met, I thought you were the biggest jerk.”

  “Heck, I thought you were snooty,” Budd said, grinning.

  “I have changed my mind, though, Monsieur Ashby. Now I think you are the nicest jerk.”

  “Thanks, baby. That’s the kindest thing anyone’s said to me in days.”

  Sweet as Juliette was, if things had turned out differently—if the world hadn’t come to an abrupt halt—she’d have never thought twice ’bout me. Half my age, beautiful, apparently talented—although with today’s music, it’s impossible to tell—she had everything going for her.

  Me? Well, I’m just me. She’d have woken up wondering what the hell had happened and sheepishly left the hotel room—I know the score. Still, I’d have been more than happy with that. It’s not every day I score with a young French pop star…

  “You will keep us safe, yes, Monsieur Ashby?”

  Budd winked. “You bet.”

  Your life…

  Budd eased a pair of thermal over-pants past his boots, pulling the elastic waist up to cover his brown slacks. Perched on the edge of a seat, he looked around at the group. Jack and Annabel were ready, dressed in ski-jackets and pants with fur-lined boots laced up over their ankles. They had goggles and gloves in their hands, and the MP-5 hung over Jack’s left shoulder.

  Father McGee was also prepared. His black robes were held in a bundle to his chest, replaced by the standard TimeTech Solutions winter gear they all wore. He had already pulled up his hood, which pushed forward his white hair and framed his wrinkled face.

  Juliette was the only one not completely changed. All she had left to do was pull on her fur-lined boots. She had a gray fleece over her short leather jacket and had covered it all with a bulky ski jacket. Over her black tracksuit bottoms, she had pulled on a pair of the padded blue pants.

  She was almost done.

  Budd picked up his shotgun.

  49

  Budd walked to the hatch and peered out through the small porthole. The only thing visible in the dark fog was the occasional flake of snow, which hurtled along on the wind. “Can anyone see anything?”

  The others approached different windows, looking out into the fog-filled snowy darkness. There was lots of disappointed head shaking.

  After a couple of minutes, Juliette broke the tense silence. Her face was pressed up against a porthole with Becky, and the two of them were pointing out into the fog, their fingers tapping the glass. “What is that light?”

  Budd scooted over in front of the porthole beside Juliette. Barely visible through the dark fog was the cone of a powerful flashlight. It was still a long way off, piercing through the gloom.

  The light got brighter, nearing them.

  “Time to open the hatch,” Budd said. He took hold of the lever and pulled it up to release the deadbolts. With a push, the heavy hatch slid on its runners.

  Freezing cold air rushed in through the gap.

  You may be wondering why I’d had a sudden change of heart; moving from being the jackass at the back of the group, desperate to stay alive, into the brave leader, ready to risk it all.

  Well, to tell you the truth, I was wondering exactly the same thing.

  And the two conclusions I came up with were simple.

  First, I’d just flown the Beech King, doing the job I know well, and there’s nothing like being successful at one thing to give you an inflated opinion of your ability to do everything else. I’d landed the bird, meaning, obviously, that I could now do anything without a problem. Well, something like that, anyway.

  Secondly—and this is the bit I’m sure you’ll have no problem relating to—the group wasn’t the most action-hero-packed bunch of Armageddon survivors out there. A French female pop star, her model-come-pop-star ex-boyfriend and his new squeeze, a wrinkly priest, a ten-year-old girl, and me: a ruggedly good-looking, mature sex machine with the stamina of a man half his age. Oh, and because sitting for so long had stiffened my leg around my bite wound, I also had a limp.

  As you can see, we were fresh out of Leaders of Men—they were already being digested—so I guess I was the best our band of bickering vagabonds could muster. When I stopped to think ’bout it, even I didn’t give us much of a chance.

  I just hoped that with Tony’s help, we could make it to the research station…

  Finally, the figure carrying the torch emerged from the darkness. The man wore a pair of black ski goggles and a blue ski jacket, the hood of which was pulled up around his face. He waved up at the Beech King’s open hatch.

  Despite the fact that much of his face was covered by the furry trim of his hood, Budd had no problem recognizing his friend. “I’m pleased to see you, brother,” he called out.

  “And you, man,” Tony shouted back. “This place’s gone to hell.”

  Budd looked at his friend with growing discontent. Slung over Tony’s shoulder was a rifle with a telescopic-sight, and, despite the cold weather, his friend wasn’t wearing the gloves that were usually an essential item of clothing on Hope Island. His fingers were free and unhindered.

  I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the plummeting temperature. Deacon had been right, nowhere was safe…

  Budd cast an eye over the surrounding fog, but there was little to see. The white, snow-covered ground stretched off uninterrupted, except for the footprints left by Tony. Visibility was low, perhaps thirty to forty feet.

  “Give me a second.”

  “Sure thing, buddy boy.”

  Budd stepped away from the hatch and grabbed a rope ladder from the floor of the locker. He attached it to the two latches and dropped the coiled up bundle of rope and wooden slats down to the snow-covered ground. He looked at Juliette as he prepared to swing his body out of the hatch. “Wait inside ‘til I call you.”

  “Yes, Monsieur Ashby.”

  “Look,” came Annabel’s voice from Budd’s left. She was standing at one of the porthole windows, pointing towards the front of the Beech King. Budd leaned out of the hatch to see along the fuselage, looking to where she indicated.

  A man in a red ski jacket was running towards them.

  “Tony, you’ve got company,” Budd shouted.

  With the warning, Tony spun away from the aircraft, his hood moving from side to side as he searched for the new arrival. By the time he saw the man in the red ski jacket, they were only fifteen feet apart.

  Budd tried to swing his shotgun around, but the strap got caught on his rucksack and all he could do was watch as Tony stumbled away. His eyes moved from his friend to the red-jacketed assailant. There was no mistaking that he’d been outside for a considerable amount of time. His short brown beard was frosted over and his skin was dry and cracked. His outstretched arms, which seemed to reach up towards the Beech King, were encased in a pair of black gloves.

  The muzzle flash and gunshot noise filled the space below the Beech King’s hatch and the red-jacketed man crashed to the ground, landing amidst a puff of snow.

  A bullet had ripped away the lower half of his jaw.

  Tony’s right arm was at full length, a revolver held in his hand. Smoke drifted from the tip of its barrel. Slowly, he lowered the silver-plated Colt King Cobra and stepped towards his wounded attacker.

  Despite his injuries, the man in the red jacket was still alive. Blood bubbled into the gory space that had been his mouth, and his arms and legs thrashed on the snowy ground.

  For a moment, Budd thought that the dying man-beast looked right at him. There was fear in t
he creature’s expression.

  Deacon had said that during the third stage, the zombie-things would be self-aware. So, I guessed that meant that they wanted to go on living. But, hell, so did we, and when have humans—let alone space-mutant zombies—ever been any good at cohabitation?

  All I hoped was that we hadn’t reached the fourth stage. If they really could communicate telepathically, he might have already asked his alien buddies to come and save him.

  I didn’t like that idea very much…

  Tony aimed his revolver at the red-jacketed thing’s forehead and pulled the trigger.

  50

  Budd dropped from the ladder with his rucksack over one shoulder and the shotgun hung from the other. The compacted ice, snow and gravel crunched beneath his boots when he landed.

  “It’s really you,” Tony said and his face beamed with a grin that showed his large white teeth. Vapor plumed from his mouth with each breath.

  “Alive and in the flesh. Good shooting,” Budd said with a nod to the red-jacketed corpse. The snow was stained crimson and had turned to slush with the hot blood.

  Tony grimaced. “I didn’t have a choice, man. I’ll explain later, I promise.”

  “No need, brother. We’ve had the same trouble.”

  “What? Do you know what’s goin’ on? We can’t raise shit on the radios.”

  Budd stepped away from the ladder as Juliette swung her body out of the hatch. Becky waited to follow. “You’re not ’bout to either.”

  Tony frowned and lowered the volume of his voice. His words were barely audible over the sound of the freezing wind that swept over the plain. “Is this going on… elsewhere?” he asked.

  “Try everywhere.”

  Juliette reached the ground and plucked Becky from the hatch, allowing the small child to wrap her arms and legs around her for a piggyback. “It is so cold, Monsieur Ashby,” she said, almost breathless.

  “It’s minus-forty at night, at least. We have to get inside. Pronto.”

  “Budd’s right,” Tony said, offering Juliette a kindly smile. “It’s too cold to hang around out here. I just spoke to the rest of my party on the radio. They headed over to the medical center for supplies, but they’ve seen company moving our way. They said we should pull out as soon as possible.”

  “Can’t we sit tight and let them freeze?” Jack asked as he reached the ground. He had the MP-5 held to his chest.

  Tony gestured towards the faint lights of the nearby buildings. “Someone tried to do that over there. They were dead before we arrived. I think we should get back to the North Camp.”

  “How are things there?”

  “We don’t have any of these crazies,” Tony said, jabbing a finger towards the dead body. “Well, not inside, anyway. Man, things are so messed up!”

  Budd looked at Juliette. “Deacon was right.”

  I’ve never kissed a man—you know, it’s not my thing—but right then, if Deacon hadn’t been a burnt-up, space-mutant zombie corpse, I might well have changed a habit of a lifetime.

  The North Camp—otherwise known as the research center—was safe and sound; all we had left to do was get there. Then I could sit back with Juliette and a glass of whiskey and relax as the world fell apart. I’d be like that Roman guy, that Emperor, you know, with his fiddle. It seemed like a good plan to me…

  “Deacon?” Tony said.

  “It’s a long story, brother. A very long story. How ’bout I tell you once we’ve reached safety?”

  “No problem.”

  Father McGee, Jack and Annabel had gathered in a small semicircle.

  “Everyone okay?” Tony said. “We’re trekking about a mile. Questions?”

  The group had none and nodded their approval.

  “I wish they’d listen to me like that,” Budd said.

  “What can I tell you? You ain’t a people person, not like me.”

  “Maybe not,” Budd said. He stood next to Juliette and looked at Becky. The little girl had the thick blanket draped over her narrow shoulders, and her face appeared vacant and expressionless. He could see what she wanted and he dropped his rucksack on the floor. “All right, Snot-nose, hop on,” he said, and he let the child clamber from Juliette’s back onto his own.

  Juliette tucked the blanket in around the little girl’s legs and then kissed Budd on the cheek. She picked up his rucksack and hung the strap over her shoulder. “Thank you, Monsieur Ashby.”

  “Don’t sweat it, baby,” Budd said with a smile. “Halfway there, we swap and I ride on her shoulders.”

  “No way,” Becky said, laughing.

  “Follow me, but stick close,” Tony said. “Even with these clothes, you’ll die of exposure out here if you get lost. The wind-chill factor’s extremely high. And keep an eye out for crazies heading our way from the Med Center.”

  “Don’t worry, boss, we’ve seen our fair share of them already,” Budd said. He slapped the barrel of his shotgun. “And they all have a lead allergy.”

  Tony let out a heartfelt laugh.

  Becky giggled too.

  51

  Tony set a difficult pace over the snow and ice, leading the way at a fast walk. The group followed close behind him, keeping up as best they could.

  The lights from the abandoned Beech King faded into the darkness and I couldn’t help but worry that I should’ve done more to preserve the aircraft. What if we needed to leave in a hurry? The concern was short lived, however. Where could we go?

  Nowhere…

  Budd was last, with Becky on his back, her arms around his neck. He’d pulled up his hood and fitted his goggles, which protected his eyes from the speeding snowflakes. Taking deep breaths, the cold air filled his lungs and he struggled to put on a pair of gloves he’d found in his jacket pocket.

  Juliette stayed alongside them.

  After a minute or so, a metal-framed building loomed into view. It was only a single-story high, but it was so wide that it ran out of sight in the direction they were heading. When they neared the building’s edge, a red glow appeared three feet above the ground. Behind, fainter, there was another. Tony led the group towards the lights.

  “What are they, Monsieur Ashby?”

  “Safety lanterns,” Budd said, raising his voice above the numbing wind. He could feel the cold air chafing the exposed parts of his stubble-covered face. “They mark the route to the North Camp. It’s to stop people losing their way in low visibility. They’re positioned every thirty feet, like a Yellow Brick Road.”

  Did that film have a happy ending? I can’t remember…

  Juliette took Budd’s right hand, entwining her glove-encased fingers around his as they continued. Gradually, she dropped off half a pace so that she could keep a check on Becky. The little girl’s head was tucked against Budd’s back, with only her eyes visible through the folds of the blanket.

  With Tony’s determined pace, the group made good progress, leapfrogging from one lantern to the next until all that could be seen upon the white wilderness at their feet was the occasional peak of a black rock. The sense of enclosure was heightened by the screaming winds, which drowned out even the crunching of the snow beneath their boots.

  The natural imprisonment filled Budd with a growing sense of unease. He was sure Juliette felt it too; her grip on his hand seemed to increase with each step. Becky started to fidget on his back, squirming inside her blanket cocoon.

  Ahead of them, Jack and Annabel were huddled close to one another. Father McGee faltered occasionally in the snow, his heavy boots a world away from his usual leather shoes. In his left hand were his bundled robes, and in his right was his flask.

  At the front of the group, Tony came to a sudden halt. “We have to hurry,” he shouted back. “We’re being followed.”

  Budd released Juliette’s hand, took a proper hold of his shotgun and looked behind them. Trails of their footprints traced back into the darkness, passing the red glow from a lantern. Snow sailed through the fog. “What do you mean, ‘
followed?’” he said. “I can’t see anything.”

  As Tony waved his revolver for us to continue, trying to speed us up, I got the feeling he was more than a little spooked. Which, I don’t mind saying, is a perfectly understandable feeling to have at the end of the world, marching across a snowy plain with the temperature a long, long, long way below zero, and a bunch of—as he called them—crazies possibly chasing you. And definitely wanting to eat you. Well, that’s how I felt…

  “Come on,” Tony shouted. He turned away and jogged towards the next lantern. Jack and Annabel followed and so did Farther McGee.

  Budd took one more backward look. The vista was empty.

  “Please go,” Becky said.

  “We should hurry,” Juliette added.

  Budd nodded his head. “Sure thing, sweetheart,” he said and moved off once again. Despite his efforts, Becky’s weight made him unsteady on the loose snow and he found it difficult to raise his pace from a walk to a jog. Juliette remained at his side, alert for danger.

  They lost sight of the others.

  Despite the cold, I was definitely sweating…

  Going as fast as Budd could manage, they went from one guide lantern to the next, moving northward. The rate of snowfall increased, making visibility even lower. There were more and more jagged black rocks, some ten feet tall, jutting from the white landscape.

  “They’re coming,” Becky said, her voice strained.

  Budd looked back over his shoulder. At the extreme edge of his vision, where the fog blended seamlessly into the dark of night, he caught sight of several blurred shadows, the vague outlines of people.

  Just for a second, I dared hope they were Tony’s pals from the Med Center.

  No chance…

  The figures lumbered onward, pulling their feet high out of the snow, achieving a pace somewhere between a jog and a run. A little behind them the fog shimmered and bulged.