by Dirk Patton
Backing ten yards into the hangar I resumed firing on the sprinting females. They were bunched up and I hardly needed to adjust my aim to clean out groups. Males that had been bumping along the front wall were now reaching the opening, turning blindly into the cavernous building and zeroing in on the sound of my suppressed rifle.
I changed magazines and took half a second to confirm that I only had one more. Sixty rounds left.
“Fifty-nine,” I said to myself as I shot a female.
Then there was short pause before I had another running target. I shot the bitch and looked, not immediately seeing another. A handful of males were in the hangar now, but I wasn’t going to waste rifle ammo on them if I could help it. Close to five seconds went by then two females came into view and I shot them. Then five seconds and a single female. Then nearly ten seconds before the next.
I shot her and with hope surging drew my Kukri and waded in to thin out the males. Keeping an eye on the open tarmac I stepped forward and met them with brute force rather than trying to dance around their perimeter. I was just too damn tired. Probably blood loss, I realized with a start.
All the males went down quickly and I moved deeper into the stygian darkness of the hangar and turned off the light. I would rely on the night vision scope, which had a much better range than the flashlight. Besides, if I got really lucky, maybe any more females wouldn’t zero in on me.
Close to thirty seconds passed without seeing any more infected. This should have heartened me, but I still had the problem of the fucking Russians. With no idea of how much time had passed since the Mi-24 had crashed, I couldn’t even begin to guess how long I might have before they showed up in force. And they would be pissed when they got here and found what I had caused. Oh well. No day is truly complete if I haven’t pissed off the Russians.
Turning, I re-scanned the echoing interior with the night vision scope. No aircraft. No Hummer. No Bradley. No Vietnam era Willy’s Jeep. Not even a Chevy, Dodge or Ford. But there was something that caught my eye. Moving deeper I clicked on my light as I approached, very surprised to find a Vespa scooter in an Air Force hangar.
I checked the door, still not seeing any infected, before kneeling and looking the machine over. It was battered and dirty, but the engine was clean and the tires were almost new. Someone had taken care of it. I didn’t know why it was here, but it was better than nothing. The only problem was it had wheels that looked smaller in diameter than my leg. The damn thing was tiny and I’d look like a circus clown riding it, not that I cared how I looked. It would move me faster than staying on foot. If my weight didn’t break something when I sat down on it. This should be interesting.
20
The little engine in the scooter started easily, but the buzzy sound it made as it idled failed to inspire my confidence. I had muscled the surprisingly heavy machine out of the nook it was being stored in, pleased to find the key in the ignition. Not that it would have taken a master thief to figure out how to hot wire it, but I was glad to not have to waste the time.
Engine happily putting away as it idled, I situated my rifle on its sling, knocked the kickstand up with my foot and swung a leg over the cracked vinyl seat. Lowering my weight, I was dismayed when the suspension compressed and kept going. I felt a bump when it came down on its stops. Apparently I was heavier than the teenage girls you normally see riding the damn things near college campuses and in tourist towns. Why oh why couldn’t there have been a nice Harley Fat Boy, or even one of the insanely fast Japanese bikes?
Kicking myself for worrying about something so incredibly stupid, I revved the throttle, grimaced when the sound reminded me of a gas powered leaf blower, then let the clutch out and started rolling. I aimed for the door and bounced over its steel tracks as I passed out into the night. The two aircraft were still burning and I realized I had no idea where I was going.
Remembering seeing a small town shortly before we were over the base, I turned north and looked for a way off the system of runways. I wished I knew how long it had been since the helo I was riding in had gone down. That would at least give me an idea of how much time I might have before reinforcements showed up, but I didn’t have a clue. I didn’t think it had been long based on how fiercely the Gulf-stream and Hind were still burning from the missile strike, but I’ve been wrong before.
The Vespa accelerated slowly, eventually getting me up to 35 miles an hour. I twisted the throttle harder, but that was apparently the top speed the little scooter was capable of with my big ass on board. At least it felt relatively stable. As long as I didn’t try to turn.
It didn’t take long to find a way off the tarmac and onto a street that paralleled the flight line. I continued my northerly direction of travel, quickly reaching a four-way intersection with signs that directed traffic to the BX (Base Exchange), Chapel and the Main Gate. I started to turn for the main gate but at the last moment reversed course and headed for the BX.
A BX, or PX (Post Exchange) if you’re in the Army, is a massive store that sells just about anything and everything you could want. Think of a Wal-Mart Super Center and throw in even more crap and you’ve got the idea. Prices are dirt cheap compared to going into town and you don’t pay sales tax, which is one reason so many military retirees want to live close to a base. Part of their retirement benefits includes privileges to shop at the PX, or BX, or whatever the hell each branch decides to call it.
The building would be huge with about a thousand hiding places. It was close, so I should be able to reach it and take cover before any Russians arrived. And there was a good chance I’d be able to find food, water and maybe even ammunition. Hopefully it wasn’t full of infected.
It was only a couple of miles before I saw the big building and its sprawling parking lot on my left. Turning in, I buzzed across the asphalt, steering to check out several vehicles that were parked haphazardly, some with doors standing open. Stopping next to an Air Force Hummer the engine quieted to an idle. Before I could step off to inspect the vehicle I heard several helicopters approaching.
Snapping my head around I could see that there was already one searching the area of the runways with a brilliant spotlight. It was moving slowly, the light swiveling as the operator worked it across the flight line. Goosing the throttle, I headed for the glass entrance doors, cutting the engine before hopping off and running the last few yards, my hands on the handlebars as I brought the scooter with me.
I gently laid the Vespa over on its side next to a plastic trash barrel chained to a post. Glancing in the can I could see a good collection of drink cups from fast food restaurants as well as assorted other detritus. A sharp kick tilted it onto its side, the chain preventing it from falling all the way to the ground. Grabbing the bottom, I lifted and spilled about a third of the contents on top of the scooter.
The garbage did the trick, effectively camouflaging my little two-wheeled speedster and making it appear it had been lying there for some time. Another glance at the flight line and I could see half a dozen helicopters moving about. Normally they wouldn’t have their anti-collision lights on in a combat environment, but in the constricted airspace over the base it was necessary so they didn’t run into each other.
Checking the glass doors with my night vision scope I was pleased when I didn’t see any infected looking back at me. Dashing forward I tried the door, pulling it open and stepping through as a helicopter passed directly overhead. I was glad I had made the decision to seek cover quickly rather than getting caught out in the open.
Rifle up, I scanned with the night vision scope. There were a lot of bodies, but my nose had told me that the instant I’d opened the door. Continuing my survey, I noted the BX was as cavernous as I had expected. Row upon row of merchandise stretched to the back wall, which was beyond the range of the scope’s ability to see. The structure was also very broad and I began moving deeper as I didn’t see or hear anything to worry me other than the Russian helos buzzing around outside.
The a
drenaline from the fight was fading, and as it left my body the pain started to set in. I could feel injuries I hadn’t even realized I’d sustained, but the most concerning was the knife wound on my shoulder. I didn’t want to turn on a light, and blood isn’t really visible in night vision, but I could feel it running down my left arm from where the Spetsnaz had slashed me open.
I needed to find some medical supplies and do what I could to stem the bleeding. There’s no big arteries or veins in the outer shoulder muscle to worry about, but that doesn’t mean a deep cut won’t result in a lot of blood loss. And if the blood loss doesn’t get you, there are all kinds of nasty infections to worry about. I was covered in several people’s blood and had no doubt some of it had found its way into my wounds.
Stepping over a couple of bodies I began making my way deeper into the store. I would have liked to turn my light on so I could read the signs hanging from the ceiling that would tell me the type of merchandise in each area, but I wasn’t about to give away my location.
Making some guesses and a few wrong turns, I finally found myself in the health/pharmacy aisles. Just as elsewhere, the shelves were neatly stocked. Not really surprising. The Air Force had maintained control so there wasn’t looting after the initial attack, then when the second and third outbreaks came they hit so hard and fast that very quickly there was no one left. Not good for the people that lived and worked here, but good for me.
I spent several minutes walking up and down the surrounding aisles, making sure I was really alone. There were more bodies, not a lot but some, and occasionally merchandise had been swept off onto the floor. I avoided these areas, not wanting to risk a misstep that would make a lot of noise. Once I was satisfied that I was alone I swung through the clothing section.
Enlisted personnel receive their uniforms free of charge. Officers have to purchase theirs. But even the enlisted often want more changes of clothes available than what is issued, so the BX carries a good supply of just about everything. I quickly gathered up new items of what I was wearing, boots included. Yes, the blood was even inside my boots.
Spying a shopping cart, I piled the clean gear into it and headed back to the medical supply area, snatching several more items off displays along the way. It took me a few minutes to find everything I needed, each item being added to the growing pile in the cart. Finally, I was ready and headed to the pharmacy proper. There was a locked door next to a counter and after scanning the shelves full of prescription drugs I reached over and unlocked the door.
Pushing my cart through I headed to the back, finding the pharmacy manager’s office. It was small, but it had a door and no window. Pushing the cart into the space I took the time to collect some prescription items before going in and softly closing and locking the door. Removing the light from my rifle I turned it on and placed it on the desk on its butt, pointed up. The ceiling tiles it shone on were white and I blinked in the sudden brightness.
Shoving the desk against the wall I cleared its surface and laid out the items I needed. I leaned my rifle up against the edge and took the rest of my weapons off, placing them within instant reach. Easing my battered body into the padded desk chair, I stripped, beginning with my boots.
Naked, I moved to the far corner of the room. I had several bottles of hydrogen peroxide and a tall stack of clean, white hand towels. Starting with my head I poured the liquid onto my skin and scrubbed with the cloths. I needed to get all of the blood off me so I could find the locations where I was injured.
Gashes and nicks on my face, neck and head burned, but there didn’t seem to be anything that was too serious. My nose, not only broken again but split open from the blow, was the worst damage I could find above my shoulders. Gingerly I probed, surprised how far out of alignment it was. No wonder I couldn’t breathe through it at the moment.
Taking a deep breath through my mouth, I held it, gritted my teeth and pressed hard with my thumbs. There was a grinding, crunching sound from within my skull and the pain blossomed anew, making me grunt and squint my eyes shut as tears sprang up. Blood began pouring out of my nose and across my lower face. I shoved two, thick gauze pads up my nostrils and cleaned around my mouth and chin, hoping the pain would back off soon.
Continuing on, I hissed when the peroxide flowed into the cut on my shoulder, bubbling fiercely. I gave it a moment before patting it with a towel and gently scrubbing the skin around the cut. I was still bleeding, the white cloth coming away stained a bright red.
I kept going, cleaning my entire body. Knuckles were skinned on both hands, and there were about a hundred places on my upper body that were sore to the touch and would become purple bruises. My nose ached and when I bent to wash my legs and feet it threatened to explode and take half my skull with it. But I survived, panting through my mouth and popping a handful of Tylenol and drinking an entire bottle of water once I finished.
My entire arm was once again covered in blood and I moved back to the desk chair. Reaching into the cart I pulled out a magnifying makeup mirror, fumbled with a package of batteries that would power the built in light, and positioned it on the desk so I could get a good look. The cut was over four inches long and ran across the thickest part of my outer shoulder. The edges of the wound had pulled apart and I was able to see into the underlying tissue. I couldn’t spot any debris that would cause a problem, but flushed the wound out again with another pour of the peroxide.
Wrapping one of the towels around my bicep to absorb the blood that was flowing down my arm, I sorted through my supplies until I found a suture kit. Peeling the cover off, I left it sitting on the desk and prepped a couple of syringes with lidocaine I’d taken from the pharmacy. Gritting my teeth, I began injecting all along the perimeter of the wound, directly into the exposed flesh beneath the skin.
It hurt like hell each time the needle went in, but it didn’t take long for the whole area to start going numb. I probably overdid it, using way more than was needed, but I’ve had stitches done without anesthetic before and I wanted to make damn sure I was ready.
While I waited for the lidocaine to take full effect I readied the needle and thread. Next I adjusted the flashlight by propping it on a small book and bracing it with a bottle of water. It was shining directly on my shoulder and I had a clear view in the mirror. Picking up the instrument that held the needle I took a deep breath and began sewing.
21
It took me over half an hour to get the wound stitched up. The end result wasn’t pretty, but on the bright side it was functional. Blood still seeped through but the sutures effectively closed the cut. I poured more hydrogen peroxide over the injury and cleaned my whole arm, then patted the wound dry. This time the towel came away with just a few red dots. Smearing on a thick layer of antibiotic ointment I wrapped a heavy gauze pad with several turns of medical tape and decided that was as good as it was going to get.
I had also found a bottle of injectable antibiotic and filled a large syringe, the same size I’d seen Rachel use on me more than once. Rolling up on one side of my ass I jabbed the needle in the other and depressed the plunger. Apparently, if you push the injection in too fast it hurts like a son of a bitch. Cursing and at the limit of my patience I flung the needle across the room. It bounced off the wall and came to rest next to the respectable sized piles of bloody towels I’d used to clean myself up.
Sitting back in the chair I took a deep breath to calm myself and wished for a cigarette. Or a stiff drink. The BX didn’t sell tobacco products and alcohol was the last thing I needed, so I settled for dressing in my new clothes. Once I was outfitted I spent a few minutes using a damp cloth to clean the blood off my weapons.
Reaching into the cart I grabbed half a dozen protein bars, quickly devouring all of them as I drank two more bottles of water. I sat back in the chair, exhausted, and relaxed for a moment as I popped open the first of three small bottles of 5 Hour Energy. They tasted like crap, but right now I needed to be alert and moving, not dragging ass. Eyeing the rifle
as I downed the final bottle, I observed how deep into every crevice it had gotten and made a mental note to tear the thing down and give it a good cleaning.
The whole time I’d been working there had been regular flyovers by helicopters. The Russians were searching the base. It wouldn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out what had happened at the flight line. I’d left a lot of infected bodies on the ground. One look and they’d know I was alive and kicking. But how certain were they I was still on the base?
The repeated flyovers probably meant they were searching with FLIR, which is about impossible to hide from in the open. I didn’t think it possible the Russians had the technology that could find me inside the building, but if I happened to be outside when one of those Hinds passed overhead I’d be spotted in a heartbeat.
Now I had a real dilemma. Were troops already on the ground, searching for me and the helos were just air support, or had the boots not arrived yet? That mattered, because once I had to face both aerial and ground level searches my odds of escape went down dramatically. Not that slipping away from the helicopters would be easy by any stretch.
I started to wish for a way to contact Jessica in Pearl Harbor and get a bird’s eye view of what the Russians were up to, but the sat phone had been taken from me when I was searched and it hadn’t been in the storage locker where I’d found my weapons. It was probably in the pocket of the trooper who had patted me down. Might as well be on Mars. There was no way in hell I could make it back onto the flight line and into the crashed helo.
First things first. I needed ammo. Drinking yet another bottle of water, I stood and stepped around the shopping cart to the office door. Pressing my ear against the cold steel surface I listened for close to a minute but didn’t hear anything moving in the main area of the BX. Carefully unlocking the knob, I gently turned it and cracked the door open a couple of inches.