The End Time Saga (Book 5): The Holding

by Greene, Daniel

  Even as she swung her M4A1 into the back of a Zulu’s skull, splashes of warm crimson blood were already melting the ice around him. Zulus fell upon his dying corpse, feasting on his defiant remains with no salute or victory chant for their valiant enemy, only heartless consumption.

  It was an opportunity to make it a little farther. She ran away from them. Her squad was dead, the last bomb planted, and the mission would be complete. To die with her Marines would be an honor. Her insides felt like a cool ice-cream headache. She was tired of running. She was tired of losing. She was tired of seeing her Marines fall to the dead. She wanted to call the shot of how she went out. Caught from behind as she ran or facing the enemy like any God-fearing Marine should? Her body shaking and her lips blue, she slowed down and stopped. Her breath burst from her chest like a cold-smoke locomotive.

  With infected moans, the Zulus glowed with the prospect of adding her to the ranks of her dead Marines.

  She spun on the dead. Clusters of Zulus, like pigs to a trough, surrounded the remains of her boys. It was easy to see along the white icy river. Masses of infected human scum devouring the bodies of her tough, loyal, fallen Marines. Odom stood back up, unsteady. Her heart didn’t even skip a beat to the cruel jest because now he was one of them. Cold, dead, and now, her enemy.

  The freezing cold made her shake. She shouted as loud as she could. “Fucking Wisconsin!” Her weapon in hand, her voice carried even louder. “Who the hell would want to live in this wasteland?”

  Flashes of her childhood in L.A., sun beating down on the concrete jungle she called home, playing soccer in a dirt field, and the single-story duplex of her childhood. It almost didn’t feel like her memory, but like something she’d seen in a movie and adopted as her own.

  Her teeth chattered and clicked as her muscles tried to keep her alive. She knew it was all a losing battle. The dead or the cold would take her. She struggled to blink her eyes. Crystalized water had frozen her black lashes in frigid clumps. Her hair numbed her skull like a crusting white helmet. She clutched her M4A1 as if it would give her life-giving warmth.

  “God is with me.” She’d known that her entire life. “God bless the Corps.” The thought pushed the smallest prickle of heat in her gut. “For God and the Corps.” A small smile forced its way over her stiff lips. She took a step in their direction. It was only a few feet before they were close enough to kill, but the movement empowered her. She was in control of her destiny, not the white-eyed devils ahead of her.

  She knew her hand broke when she rammed it into an infected head, but everything was a painful blur. Grappling with another dead, she tossed him over her hip. Spinning, she jabbed her gun into another neck and kicked in the knee of another. A hand clutched for her hair, digging into her scalp. She cried out as the strands broke off in its grasp and forced the barrel of her carbine into the Zulu’s neck, using it to impale the disgusting rotting human.

  The barrel stopped when it was deep enough to catch her front sight. She heaved, tossing it to the ground. More came for her. She would give them what they wanted: a bitter fight.

  She chopped at arms, snapping brittle bones. Stomping, she crushed the side of a Zulu’s skull. The graying shapes closed, and there was no more space to move, only a jumble of bodies. More grasped her neck as they tried to control her, and their weight bore her down to the ice. A jagged hunk of ice rammed her side as they piled on top. She didn’t think about it as she fought from her back.

  She grabbed the creature by its neck in return. Its teeth chattered in anticipation closing in on the tip of her nose; her teeth shook.

  A sound like the earth breaking engulfed her. She held onto her foe as they were taken airborne. It still tried to bite her as they became weightless bodies unbound by gravity. Her fingers dug even harder into the thing’s neck. She was a pit bull, never letting go.

  STEELE

  Camp Forge, IA

  Gwen sat on the floor. Her legs laid to the side and Haley hung onto her, gripping her tightly, terrified of everything happening around them. Her sooty face was streaked with tears, and blood was drying out of her ears and nose. She squeezed Haley into her chest as if her body could prevent the violence from reaching her.

  In his good hand, he held his Beretta and in the other his tomahawk. It felt light in his hand as if it were a bladed extension of his body. He wound his light ax in circles with quick flicks of his wrist, each circle ramping him up for the close combat brutality he was about to unleash on his enemies.

  A fist pounded on the door and tightened him up. Gwen stared defiantly toward the impending intruders.

  A gruff voice shouted, “Open the fucking door!”

  Dutch and Rocky started to bark, crowding the door, fur standing along their backs.

  Haley audibly sobbed into Gwen’s breast, and Gwen reinforced her hold on the girl. “Shhh, baby.” Her voice barely breached the edge of Steele’s mind. He verged on violently exploding like a penned animal willing to kill anything in its path.

  “If you don’t open this door, it’s going to be bad,” the voice said into it, muffling the sound.

  The sole of the man’s boot was louder than his fist, and the cabin shook beneath it. Rocky and Dutch frantically barked. Thump. Thump. The door caved, its wood splintering into jagged pieces. A hand forced the door inward.

  A biker in a leather coat took a few steps into the cabin. Rocky jumped on him and he caught the dog, throwing him into the wall. Rocky yelped. His eyes fell on Gwen and a cruel smile touched his lips. “Well, what do we have here?” He scolded her as he walked in. “You should have opened up when we said.” He was closely followed by three more men. Dutch stood between them, barking and baring teeth.

  Steele stood still, letting another man step into the doorway. The lead biker strode closer to Gwen. “Ah, pretty one. This should be fun.”

  “Ain’t that Steele’s girl?”

  The first biker turned back toward the others. “Even better.”

  Dutch continued to snarl.

  “Shut that fucking dog up!” One of the men took aim at Dutch with his handgun.

  The biker in the doorway took another step inside and glanced in Steele’s direction. His eyes opened a fraction as his mind processed that another man stood waiting unannounced.

  Steele was a blur of vengeance. His tomahawk caught the side of the biker’s neck. It seared through his flesh and arteries as if it were alight with fire. He continued his strike by hooking the soon-to-be dead man by the back of his neck with the follow through.

  With a quick movement, he tossed the man headfirst and dying into the log wall. Steele flashed into the doorway. The biker standing outside tensed, his eyes gaping. But action was always faster than reaction. Two quick shots into his upper chest put him on his ass like he’d slipped on ice. Steele rotated back, facing the other three men.

  He whipped his tomahawk back across the front of his face and slashed the next man through the throat. The bald-headed biker’s mouth frowned in surprise. He dropped his gun, hands fleeing for the gash.

  Steele punched out his single hand, firing a round into the chin of the biker closest to Gwen, dimpling it. Steele continued to twist his body, and the biker closest to him pounced on his arm, ripping at his pistol with both hands. Keeping his arm near his body where he had the most power and strength, he utilized his core muscles to keep his gun close. With a roar, he drove his feet, backpedaling the biker into the wall.

  The goateed man cried out as they slammed into the wood. He used both hands to beat Steele’s hand into the rock of the fireplace. Once. Twice. The third hit sent shockwaves of pain shivering up into his shoulder, and he released the gun. It clattered on wood planks.

  The biker ripped Steele’s arm the other direction, and he had to go with the movement or risk destroying his shoulder joint. As Steele went the other direction, he lost his tomahawk, and he was whipped to the floor in a Judo-style toss. The planks jumped as his back made contact, and the man dove ato
p him, straddling him in the mounted position.

  Rough hands wrapped around Steele’s throat. The biker’s grip tightened like a vise as he found his life-erasing hold. Steele chopped down with his forearms into the man’s hands, but the man was in a frenzied rage, growling as he squeezed the life from him. He redoubled his efforts, bearing down on Steele, compounding the constriction of the soft tissue in his neck.

  Dutch’s growls lingered as background noise. Steele bucked and went for the man’s ball sack, but his strikes were unable to generate any sort of power. The dog latched on the biker’s back leg, tugging him off balance. Air flowed into Steele’s throat, and he scrambled to free his legs. The biker hammer-punched Dutch’s head, beating him repeatedly. The Labrador held on for multiple blows until he yelped in pain, releasing him.

  Steele wrapped his legs around the biker’s torso. The man leapt at him again, and this time, Steele forced a leg around the man’s neck. He locked his feet around the biker, yanking the biker’s arm across his own body, tightening his hold. The biker struggled in his grasp, feeling the strength breaking him.

  His tomahawk handle appeared from the top of the biker’s skull as if he’d had a sudden growth of metal. Blood spurted on the wall. Blinking rapidly, the biker realized he’d been killed. Streams of blood traveled down his head and reddened the lines of his face. His jaw dropped open a fraction, and he let out a disgusted groan. Steele shoved the man against the floorboards with a thud.

  Gwen stood over them both. The man started to convulse in his final moments. His fingers curled and his mouth twitched. She eyeballed him, pure hatred raging on her face.

  Steele collected his Beretta from the floor and holstered it. Gwen picked up a shotgun, and Steele shouldered an M4A1 on his back and slung another around his front. He dug through the dead man’s pockets for extra magazines. Gwen joined him in his search.

  They worked briskly and in silence, Haley watching them from the corner, surrounded by the dogs. Steele placed his boot in the dying biker’s neck, and brain gore splashed as he ripped the tomahawk free. He linked it loosely back into his belt.

  “We have to keep moving. There’ll be more.”

  “I know,” Gwen whispered.

  Shots from a gun battle were popping off on the other side of the camp, sounding like a bunch of kids playing with firecrackers instead of people killing on another. “We’re still in this fight.” Gwen nodded fiercely. “We can’t take her into this.”

  He eyed Gwen and the child. “I can’t carry Becky and fight.”

  The woman stirred as if they’d called her name. Becky sat up. “What happened?” Registering that bodies littered the cabin, she became fearful. Her breath came in gasps. “Oh God. Oh, my God.”

  Both Steele and Gwen shushed her, and she calmed slightly. “Haley. Baby, come here.” The little girl ran to her mother and jumped into her arms.

  Steele sidestepped and eyed outside the door. “There’s more coming. We need to move.”

  “What’s happening?” Becky asked.

  “We’re under attack. We have to get out.” He continued to eye the outside rebellion.

  Gwen helped her to her feet. “We have to leave.”

  “What about Pa and Ma?”

  Gwen shook her head. “Later.”

  “Oh, my God,” Becky said to herself as Gwen led them behind Steele.

  Gwen spoke quietly over Becky. “Get us to the horses and I’ll get help.”

  He shook his head, his eyes scanning the chaos with grim outlook. “No, that’s where most of them are. We have to get you out of here. Over the wall. Run for town.” He eyeballed them, ensuring they understood. “Over the wall and to town. Not a word.”

  Becky and Haley nodded, eyes blinking back fearful tears. He turned to Gwen. “Not a word. You run.”

  She shook her head at him in tearful anger. He knew she would rather stay to fight. He wasn’t stupid, but they had responsibilities and hers right now was to keep herself and their baby alive.

  He sighted his M4A1 down the row of cabins, keeping it at an angle to see as much as he could before stepping out into potential danger. He quickly checked the other way. “Quiet. Let’s move.”

  Not hesitating, he rushed out of the cabin. The first thing that struck him were the bodies in the snow. So many lay dead, bleeding out, and it stung worse because he knew they were his people and not the enemy. The biker he’d shot earlier had made it to the edge of another cabin before expiring, leaving a snail trail of scarlet in the snow.

  Steele cut around the corner of a cabin. He knew the women were right behind. Fear would keep them close. People crunched through the snow. Steele knelt, holding a finger up to his lips. A gang of Chosen walked by, driving prisoners in front of them.

  A slimy looking man directed the others. “Get them to the farmhouse.” The group continued on, shoving the backs of the captured prisoners, unaware of Steele’s party hidden in the shadows.

  The logged exterior wall of Camp Forge lay ahead. Steele ran for it, his stance aggressive like he was hunting another man. He scanned down either side of the enclosure. After a sharp wave, the two women and little girl ran for him, the dogs tagging behind. He offered his hand to help them over.

  “Hurry.”

  Becky nodded and shoved a wet boot in his hands. He hefted her over as she kicked and squirmed. He bent low and grabbed Haley. “Shhh.” He handed her over to the waiting arms of her mother.

  Gwen eyed him, her green eyes wet emeralds in a pale field of snow.

  “Not today,” he whispered.

  She nodded her head. “I’ll be back.”

  “I know you will.” He interlaced his fingers and she placed a foot inside his hand. He heaved her up and over and she disappeared to the other side. One after the other he helped the dogs over.

  He’d done the best he could. Revenge flitted on the outskirts of his mind as did, rescuing as many as he could from this betrayal.

  He took his M4A1 back to his shoulder and moved with speed to the fires at the far end of the enclosure and away from the gunfire. He weaved through cabins toward where the Iron Drakes resided. Sorrowful cries of the living and the screams of the dying splashed together with the trumpets of gunfire, a lattice of suffering that ruled the camp.

  As he closed in on allied biker cabins, he heard voices. He pressed his back against a cabin wall, shallowing his breathing.

  He spied around the corner. It was a quick glance, one a hunted man would do to gain intelligence while evading capture. A brief look and then back to safety. His head popped around the corner.

  War Child stood with almost twenty of his men. A group of captured Iron Drakes were in a line with their hands in the air. In front of them, he recognized Barney, having been shoved to his knees at the foot of the ancient biker president. War Child spread his arms wide. An orange glowing cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth. “Where’s Frank?”

  Barney grunted not daring to look away and spat. “Dead.”

  Smoke billowed from the side of War Child’s mouth. “You saying that he’d rather burn alive inside that cabin than come out and talk with his old friend?” A smile turned up his wrinkled mouth.

  Barney’s eyes drifted over at a cabin. “He’s dead.”

  Cocking his head to the side, the ancient biker raised his eyebrows. “Really?”

  Barney stared at the ground. “Yeah.”

  War Child put the barrel of his handgun an inch from Barney’s head and pulled the trigger. It looked like something punched out the back of Barney’s skull and he slumped over on his side.

  “Bring him to me alive or dead. And I want to see my old buddy Thunder.”

  His men scrambled in different directions. A trio of armed War Machines led the group of captured Iron Drakes down to the burning farmhouse. Steele ducked back behind his cabin.

  “Frank could still be alive,” he said to himself.

  The snowfall rained harder from the black-filled sky on Christmas morni
ng. It was a determined snowstorm, one that would have made Steele think twice about leaving the house. One that could end up with you in the ditch with only a snowplow to pull you out.

  Steele stood and spun. He jogged down the other side of the cabins and cut down a row ahead of the captives. He rested his back next to the cabin. He tried to control his heavy breathing even as the crystalized mist escaped his mouth.

  The front captor stepped into view, oblivious to his surroundings. Steele waited as more prisoners passed. He crept from the shadows and curled quickly near the edge of the cabin. His carbine banged and the casing pinged as it was released from the weapon. He capped the two guards in the back while the other Iron Drakes jumped the lead guard. The ambush was over quick like it had never happened, and the men ran for cover between the cabins.

  Steele grabbed one of them by the scruff. “Where’s Frank?”

  The biker’s eyes fully opened. “He escaped. I don’t know.”

  Steele took off his other carbine and handed it to the biker, unslinging the weapon on his back for another biker. The heavy sound of a fifty-cal thundered in the distance. Please don’t be gunning down our people already.

  “Follow me,” Steele said to the Iron Drakes. They ran down the row of cabins.

  “Steele!” a man yelled. His gun instinctually veered toward the voice. Larry peeped out from a cabin, his eyes peering from side to side. He waved them inside. Steele and the bikers forced their way through the door. Larry and Gregor were there with guns along with a cluster of soldiers.

  Almost forty people stood crammed inside waiting for rescue or death or both. They were a mass of huddled fear.

  “We didn’t know what to do. They had everyone pinned in the big barn.” Larry averted his eyes in shame.

  Steele reached out. “You did fine. Who is with us?”

  “I don’t know. So much gunfire. The Chosen surrounded the barn and started shooting everyone.”