“Figures,” Byers grumbled. “Give you the benefit of the doubt one time, and now I’m stuck with you.” The words were harsh, but he tempered them with a wink.
Jokes about pyramids aside, the bulkhead door swung inward, which gave Miles and Byers an additional point to grab onto once they were able to get it open. Lawrence and Burton did most of the heavy lifting. When Miles and Byers made it outside, the other two passed up the kit containing the emergency radio’s coiled antenna as well as each man’s rifle.
Guglik had managed to put the Orca down in a small clearing, though their forward momentum and roll had slammed the nose and back of the craft into the trees ringing the edge. As Miles did a slow circle, staring at the shadows in the forest beyond the crash site, he couldn’t shake the feeling that they were being watched. Despite that, nothing moved. He even got up on tiptoe and tried to get a good look at the top of the mountain, but the forest cover was too thick to get more than a subtle impression.
Maybe we lucked out and crashed in the exclusion zone.
“Nothing,” Byers murmured.
Miles nodded in agreement. “Same.”
“Hold my gun—I’ll take the antenna.”
The largest tree the Orca leaned against stood at least thirty feet above them, and they were high enough off the ground that the lowest branches were an easy reach for the Marine. He snaked up the trunk and disappeared from view, though Miles occasionally saw shaking leaves as he headed toward the top. After what felt like an eternity, Byers dropped back down onto the side of the dirigible, trailing an unspooled length of cable. “On the bright side, it’s long enough,” the Marine remarked. He moved over to the open hatch and threw the rest of the spool down. From the number of coils, there was more than enough slack. At least something’s going right.
As Byers straightened and turned back for his rifle, Miles caught a blur of motion out of the corner of his eye. Without thinking, he bolted forward, tackling the Marine around the waist and pulling him down. Something whooshed through the air over their heads, and Byers cut off his curse of annoyance as also he recognized it for what it was.
Miles opened his mouth to speak, but he realized that after saving Byers, his slide wasn’t stopping. He let loose a garbled cry as he slipped across the curved hull, flailing for a handhold. Fingers brushed his back as the sergeant reached out to try and grab him, but he was moving too fast. As quickly as he’d made his move, Miles was falling into the empty air.
It wasn’t a long fall, but it hurt. His carbine twisted around on its single-point sling and slammed into his gut as the stock caught the ground. Even as the impact punched the air from his lungs, he desperately prayed. Don’t break, don’t break …
Miles wanted nothing more than to lie on the ground and catch his breath. He pushed himself up, anyway, taking in hoarse gulps of air as he fumbled for the carbine and brought it to his shoulder. The receiver extension didn’t seem bent out of true, which was a good sign considering the wallop it had just taken. He swept the barrel across the clearing, searching for the source of the thrown spear when something narrow and hard smacked into the back of his legs and took them out from under him.
Flat on his back, he tried to twist the carbine into position, but another strike numbed his hand, the weapon falling to his chest. Air hissed, parted, and gleaming steel rested on his throat—then stopped.
Blinking, Miles stared at the figure standing over him, trying to reconcile what he was seeing with what just happened. None of it made sense. Swallowing and forcing himself to remain calm, he said, “Who the hell are you?”
October 18, 2026
St. Louis, Missouri
Z-Day + 3,287
The manic frenzy of their initial entry into battle faded, and the Marines settled into a slow, comfortable rhythm.
The Orcas made it back before the third A-10 sortie. With the side walls established, they sent the second FireStorm on a run along the shore to complete the kill box. Coop didn’t know how many they’d killed, nor did he think they had a good way to find out, but the growing mounds of smoldering corpses turned the park around the Arch into a hellish, lunar landscape.
The breeze shifted before noon, carrying the smoke across the river right into their faces and forcing the Marines to break out their gas masks. He was so busy barking at his men to put theirs on that he was late in donning his own. This left his mouth tasting of campfire until the wind changed direction again and gave him the opportunity to take a swig from his canteen. He’d thrown an orange drink packet in from the MRE he’d eaten at breakfast. The sickly-sweet flavor made for an interesting contrast until he got the taste of ash out of his palate.
Stahlberg waved him down. “Sergeant Major on the horn.”
Coop nodded. “Check and redistribute rounds—we’ve got a resupply boat coming, but I don’t want any of the teams to clock out before they get here.” They’d slowed the pace of firing, taking periodic pauses between fire missions to clean the mortar tubes, but he wasn’t sure what would happen if they slacked off on the fire. The incoming rounds thinned the horde out as they rushed the firewalls. If zulu was able to push any harder, it was possible they’d swamp the fires through sheer mass, and be able to break containment. That didn’t necessarily signify any real danger for the teams, but it would be the death knell to their opportunity to wipe out the infestation in the city and surrounding areas. Taking the radio from Stahlberg, he said, “Gateway-One.”
McFarlane didn’t waste any time. “Check six, Coop.”
With a sinking feeling, he turned and scanned the east bank of the river. It wasn’t as open as the Missouri side, but staggering shapes trickled through stalled trains to the south and the parking lot of the hotel-casino to the north. “Somebody’s always late to the party.” He checked his watch and considered the timing. It was still much too soon to be the lead elements of the horde Hellcat spotted. “On the bright side, Sergeant Major, they can’t get away this time.”
“We’re going to have to accelerate our operational pace, but either way, it’s going to reduce fire pressure. Our job just got a lot harder.”
Coop waved Stahlberg over. “Have Mather and Fields flip the Brownings around and light up the eastern shore.” The lance corporal turned to follow his pointing finger, then turned back with wide eyes.
“On it, Sergeant.”
“Sergeant Major, if you can speed up resupply, we can put enough rounds on target with the FireStorms to get the job done. Let the A-10s and Orcas attrit the new force, some. They don’t represent a security threat to hold St. Louis, but hell—we’ll need to drive that way at some point.” Might as well make the most of the opportunity.
Order received, the .50s thumped, and the leading edge of the flanking force crumpled in the barrage. They hadn’t compressed into a solid front, and without mass targets, the gunners manning the heavy machine guns held back, waiting for the most efficient use of their firepower. He kept his face blank, but a small surge of pride rushed through him at the hard-earned discipline they’d been able to instill into the men over the past few months. Despite the proximity, they were in no immediate danger, so the old standard of hosing zulu down wasn’t needed in this engagement.
“Good move on flipping the machine guns, I’ll make the call to the rest of the boats. I concur on air support, I’ll get on the horn and make that happen—in the meantime, cross your fingers for the resupply. We’ll get them to put the pedal to the metal—wait, are you seeing this?”
The new arrivals, rather than clumping up at the edge of the river, had turned north, slipping between parked vehicles and undergrowth. Coop had seen that sort of uncharacteristic behavior before, and he didn’t like what it signified, now. “We’ve got an alpha over there.” It was a moot observation—he was sure McFarlane understood the implications as well as he did, but there was a cathartic effect to expressing it in such a banal manner.
“They’re making for the bridge.”
Coop stepped out o
f the radio shack, waving and shouting to get the attention of the mortar teams closest to the bow. “Redirect fire!” he called, once he had their attention, pointing toward the shattered stub of the bridge jutting from the eastern shore. It was much shorter than the surviving span on the opposite side, and there were a lot fewer cars. That meant less time for zulu to stand exposed on the bridge deck, as well as fewer obstacles to slow them down. Flailing, gray bodies were spilling into the river by the time the mortar teams redirected their tubes and put rounds on target. The puffs of black smoke ended all too soon, however, and the calls came out from the teams toward the bow—they were out of ammunition. The machine gunners continued to fire, sweeping broken figures from the bridge with each burst, but they didn’t have enough firepower to stop the advance.
Holding back his curse, Coop glanced toward the brown surface of the river and pondered what secrets lay beneath. There was a mild, consistent current, but it was hardly a raging rapid. The current was bound to sweep more than a few zulu downstream, but how many would latch onto anchor chains or other underwater debris? His sense of comfort dissipated, replaced by the overwhelming feeling of impending doom.
“You need to light a fire under someone, Sergeant Major,” Coop said into the radio. It surprised him how calm his voice sounded. “Zulu has apparently realized that no plan survives contact with the enemy.”
McFarlane didn’t respond. He turned to check the radio, but the other man finally came back. “Roger that—and whatever is, it’s spreading. Check the park.”
The fires still burned to the north and south, but there were spots where the flames were less intense than others, and as Coop turned to watch, they died down completely. As he’d figured, raw mass swamped the flames and allowed the rest of the occupants of the park to push forward and back onto the bridge. Whatever had happened on the east side to organize things seemed to be spreading to the west.
He turned and waved wildly at the stern mortar teams. “Haul ass, Marines! We need every round you’ve got to the bow. If you’re not dropping shells, break out your personal weapons and fire at will. Shit just got real.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
May 7, 2018
Taum Sauk State Park, Missouri
Z-Day + 201
Henry blinked in surprise a few times before lurching into action. He seized the collar of Molly’s flannel shirt and screamed in her face, peppering her cheeks with spittle. “What have you done, you little bitch?”
She brought her knee up with every bit of strength she’d earned on the farm. Molly had thought she’d been in good shape, playing basketball. But life with the Metz family had taught her the distinct difference between cardio training and farm strong.
The scientist squealed as she scored a direct hit on his crotch. He let her go and reached down to clutch himself. The noises he made were nothing close to words, and Hatcher laughed, thinking the entire thing a very fun game.
“What did I do? I listened, you freak. I listened to Dave Metz when he told me stories about how the Vietcong used to sabotage equipment by putting grenades in fuel tanks with a rubber band holding the safety in place. Fuel dissolves the rubber band, and boom—there goes your generator.” She held up the arm and snapped the band at her wrist. “That part was easy—it was a lot harder to swipe a grenade, but once I figured out where your goons kept them, I just had to wait for the right time. Since I’m only a girl, I guess they never really regarded me as a threat.” Molly laughed. “Oops.” She pulled her leg back and kicked him again, in the stomach this time. “That’s for Dave and Anne, and all the people down in the valley, jerk.”
“Juck,” Hatcher agreed.
Molly took the toddler’s hand and pulled him to his feet. Once she got him moving, it didn’t take much convincing to get him to move closer to the door. She doubted that her strikes had done any permanent damage, but Henry just watched them go. The brash, overconfident man who’d lorded his mastery over the both of them was no more, replaced by someone sunken and hollow.
For some strange reason, she felt a split-second of guilt at leaving him behind, but she pushed the feeling away. She hadn’t left her best friend, and circumstance had taken her Gram from her, but she would let herself abandon this monstrous architect and squash the tiny hint of regret with an overwhelming sense of cosmic justice.
She hustled Hatch through the first door. The small vestibule was empty, but that wasn’t out of the ordinary. The guards usually stood a post on either side of the outer door in the hallway, rotating out at some point as it seemed to be a different set each time she left the lab. Raising a finger to her lips and hoping the toddler could remain silent for a few moments, she put her ear to the door and listened. The metal was cool on the skin of her cheek, and though the heavy steel muffled the sound, Molly could make out the rapid pop-pop-pop of gunfire. They wouldn’t stand around while that was going on, right?
She didn’t hesitate for long—they either had a chance to escape, or they didn’t. The door came open on silent hinges, but she stopped when the crack was large enough to see through. The hallway outside of the lab seemed deserted, but she didn’t allow herself to trust it, forcing herself to wait and listen before proceeding any further.
The disconcerting stillness persisted. She put a hand on either side of Hatcher’s face, turning his eyes up to meet her own. The streaks of gray in the white around his pupils didn’t unnerve her as much as it had, and so far other than being a little tired he hadn’t exhibited anything that Henry would describe as a strange symptom. “We have to run away from the bad men, okay? Hold onto my hand, run when I run, and hide when I hide.” Part of her knew that the instructions were too complicated for a kid who’d only recently stopped using diapers, but his strange eyes met her own with a seriousness that seemed out of character for someone so young.
“Ba’ men. Run hide. We go, Mole?”
She hugged him, as desperate for the human contact as she was to hide the sudden wash of tears. She’d never had a kid brother, and the chance of having kids of her own was looking more and more like a long shot every day, but she was starting to get why adults were so loopy for them.
“Yes,” she murmured into his hair. “We go.”
Together, they advanced down the hallway at a fast walk, Hatcher’s sweaty fingers clutched in Molly’s own. The sounds of fighting from outside had faded somewhat, replaced by intermittent screams that promised unspeakable sights. What happens if he sees it all and wigs out?
“I’ve got to carry you,” she murmured to him as well as herself. Hatcher didn’t respond, but he lifted both arms up to her. She picked him up and balanced him on one hip so she could open the door with her opposite hand.
If anything, he was lighter than he had been back in the fall—or maybe she was just stronger. Maybe a little bit of both, she judged. She wasn’t that much stronger, and Henry’s treatments had taken a bit of the innocent pudginess out of his cheeks and tummy.
“Here we go,” she said, her voice tight and breathy. “Cover your eyes, honey.”
Molly opened the door and stepped into hell.
Black smoke filled the air, reducing her visible range and giving the screams from across the camp a haunting, ethereal effect. There was a body at her feet, but she didn’t bother to look at it—it wasn’t moving, so it wasn’t a threat. Despite that, she swung wide around, out of arm’s length.
The gravel crunched under her feet, and she winced, but a new storm of gunfire sounded from somewhere off to her left, with more shouting. Molly didn’t know how many of the contractors were originally infected. From the sounds of things, when they’d turned in the middle of the rest of their companions, they’d had a heyday. Drying blood painted swatches of disturbed gravel, but she forced herself to keep moving forward. She had to be getting close to the Humvees. If she could get into one of those, they could get away. She’d watched when they’d driven the two of them up here, and the truck didn’t even have keys, only a push button
start.
Another step and she froze. A gurgling contractor lay on the ground, surrounded by a trio of blood-streaked figures, who worried and gnawed at his limbs. It looked like something out of one of the nature shows they used to watch in biology—lions or hyenas, maybe. As sickened as she was by the spectacle, she was unable to look away. She took a step to the side, praying for the smoke to continue to obscure her and Hatch from sight.
How long do they eat, she thought, before moving on? It couldn’t be long, after all, else they wouldn’t be able to spread the virus. She’d never seen any of the television coverage Dave had told her about. The sheer scale of it would seem to indicate that they weren’t eating everything. So how did they know when to stop? Keeping an eye on them, she stepped to the side, moving on the diagonal to keep getting closer to the trucks.
The stricken man fell still. A few minutes later, he began to move again, though his motions were stiffer and robotic, now. And as one, the trio of attackers ceased gnawing and pulled away. That made a sick amount of sense, she supposed. No need to continue if the subject had turned, and she supposed that the nanites made the meat unsuitable for consumption. Henry had muttered about the miniaturized machines breaking down proteins to power themselves as well as reproduce, and meat that was already chock full of nanites was useless for that person.
That boded well for Hatch, she supposed, but it left her high and dry. Another step. The back end of one of the Humvees became visible through the murk.
Hatch had kept his face tucked into the crook of her neck since they’d left the lab building, but for some reason, he chose that moment to pull away and look around. Trying to maintain her balance, she clamped down with one arm and tried to bring her other around to pin a hand across his mouth as he caught sight of the zombies she’d avoided.
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