The Remaining: Allegiance

by D. J. Molles

  The DM intoned, “Got three more. Other side of those shacks. Five total. Two on one side, three on the other. Looks like they’re moving this direction again.”

  Lee had already risen to leave, and he didn’t let the words stop him. They only spurred him on. The hunters would be coming back. They had regrouped and were approaching the Camp Ryder building to figure out how to crack that nut and get to the meat inside. And if they had enough time, Lee thought that they would do it. But no matter what, he couldn’t sit inside and look at Abby and tell her that he was just going to let Sam stay outside those doors. He had to go. And if he was going to go, then he needed to go now.

  Sam couldn’t take it any longer. In the stillness of the shanty, staring at Caleb and waiting for him to snap out of it, Sam could hear the faint rustlings out in the camp, drawing closer it seemed, closer and closer.

  His blood felt like battery acid. He needed to move.

  Sam lurched forward and seized hold of Caleb’s arm, pulling him toward the door. “Come on,” he whispered. “Caleb, we need to get out of here.”

  “No,” Caleb jerked back. “It’s safe in here.”

  “It’s not fucking safe in here, you idiot!” Sam kept pulling, and succeeded in dragging Caleb to his feet so that he stutter-stepped toward the door. “It’s safe in the building! You’re gonna get us both killed if we stay here.”

  “No…” Caleb’s voice suddenly spiked into a shriek and he flailed backward. “No! No! No! I’m not goin’ out there!”

  Sam stood frozen like a pillar of salt, staring wide-eyed at Caleb. “Okay! Just shut the fuck up! Please…”

  Caleb was backpedaling. “Not gonna go! Not gonna go!” he kept shouting.

  Sam was waving his free hand in a calming gesture, though it belied the sudden terror in his eyes. His other hand gripped his rifle hard, his palms going damp and sweaty. “Caleb! Shut. UP!”

  Caleb put his back against the shanty wall, sinking down into a squat and shaking his head. He was no longer the young man that Sam knew. The buck-toothed, freckle-faced fuck that Sam had given a straight jab right to the mouth, trying to knock that stupid front tooth out because the other kid talked too much. He had become something else. Childish and weak. Unable to comprehend or to cope with what was happening.

  “Leave me alone, Sam!” Caleb was half-shouting, half-whimpering.

  The cracks in the wall behind Caleb. The ambient light through them.

  How they darkened so suddenly, blotted out.

  Sam reached a hand out, though too much space lay between them. “Caleb,” he whispered one more time, but it was not this time or any other time that the other kid would listen to. His eyes were locked shut to the darkness, to the violence, to the danger. His head was shaking back and forth, his hands up next to his face, like they were trying to shield off imaginary blows.

  Mentally, Caleb seemed gone.

  He could not hear Sam. He could not see what was happening.

  The walls of the shanty stopped a good three or four inches from the gravel ground. The rest was hung in some places by tarpaulin, and in others by blankets—just some sort of barrier to keep the chill out. And this was where Caleb was crouched down, whimpering and yelping to himself.

  Run, Sam told himself as he watched the darkness that framed Caleb, the shadow of something on the other side of that wall. Run while you still have a chance…

  “Caleb, they’re behind you,” Sam said.

  Caleb didn’t open his eyes.

  And then there was the sound of something bursting through plastic tarp, and this time Caleb’s eyes went wide, as a hand seized his ankle from underneath the wall, clamping onto him like an iron shackle.

  Caleb tried to stand up, tried to jump away, but he was suddenly sprawled on the floor, his caught right foot being pulled underneath the wall, and the creature on the other side grunting and barking and not letting go.

  Both of Sam’s hands were on his rifle now, bringing it up to his shoulder.

  Caleb reached out to him. “Sam!”

  One leg under the wall.

  Caleb struggled against it. His hands clawing for purchase in the gravel. Then it seemed he was ripped back and forth, his small, wiry body suddenly limp as he was thrashed like a rag doll. Caleb looked right into Sam’s eyes as this happened, and the whole time his body was being yanked back and forth, his eyes remained locked with Sam’s, and Sam watched them change from terror into agony.

  Don’t scream, Sam was thinking. Please don’t scream.

  The thing on the other side—or maybe it was another one entirely—reached under the wall again and seized hold of Caleb’s other leg, pulling it under the wall so quickly that it seemed that parts of Caleb were simply disappearing.

  “Sam, please!” Caleb cried out, and those were the last words he said. More of him was sucked under the wall, so that his hips were underneath it now, just his torso and his flailing, grasping hands still inside the shanty where he had thought he was so safe. He started to scream, wordless, panicky pain.

  Sam wanted to run to help, but he was rooted where he stood. He didn’t even pull the trigger on his rifle, because he knew it would do no good. It seemed like he held a flimsy stick in his hand now.

  The thrashing of Caleb’s limbs grew abruptly weak as shock blanketed him. More of him disappeared under the wall, just the chest and head and arms now, jerking around not of their own volition, but following the movements on the other side of the wall as the rest of him was ripped to shreds. Caleb’s cries suddenly ran out, like a bellowing teakettle removed from the heat source. Now his breath just came out in ragged gasps.

  Eyes still locked on Sam. Still holding on.

  Sam realized he was backing up. He felt the tarpaulin door on his back, the cold air beyond shocking the sweat-dampened back of his neck.

  He heard gunfire, but he couldn’t look away.

  Hands grabbed him.

  He felt his knees go out.

  “Help,” he managed, but it barely came out.

  Bullets were ripping into the shanties all around him, Sam could see them like he was watching them in slow motion, watching them splinter the scrap wood and punch holes cleanly through the metal siding of people’s small hovels.

  The hands that had a hold of him were rough, and they bore him up, and he felt his feet leaving the ground, and the ground was moving quickly underneath him, and then the tarpaulin door of the shanty where Caleb had hid and died was flapping back into place, and the rows of shanties were flying by.

  He heard the words, “It’s me, Sam, it’s me.”

  He watched the rows of shanties suddenly disappear as he was carried forcefully out into the open, and it took what seemed like long, unending moments for the words to permeate the layer of fear in his chest, and to actually embed themselves in his consciousness and make sense.

  He was being carried through the Square now. Open space all around them.

  From the shadows behind a row of shanties, dark shapes loped around the corner, long and muscular and low to the ground, pursuing like wolves.

  “We’re almost there,” the voice said, straining.

  Sam managed to turn his head just enough to see the side of a face, to see the jagged, ugly scar that ranged from the top of his temple, all the way back through his hair, and he knew that it was Captain Harden that had ahold of him, so he clung to the man with his left hand, and he clung to his rifle with his right, and he felt as weak and as devastated as he had the day that his father had been murdered, and Captain Harden had scooped him up and carried him to safety, just as he was doing now.

  But I’m not that kid anymore. Four months ago, I was a child.

  Now I’m a man. I should be fighting like one.

  Captain Harden was strong, but he was carrying Sam’s full weight on an injured body and a not-quite-healed ankle, and the hunters were fast, too fast for them to hope to get away.

  “I can run!” Sam suddenly shouted, his legs kicking. “Pu
t me down!”

  Captain Harden didn’t hesitate, but instead almost slung Sam over his hips and onto the ground, as though to give him a head start. Sam’s kicking legs hit the ground. He turned as he did, looking at the captain’s eyes, hard as diamonds. They seemed fearless, though Sam knew that no man was without fear.

  “Then run!” Captain Harden bellowed at him, and then turned to face their pursuers.

  Lee planted his feet, squared his shoulders, and brought his rifle up. He could see the hunters in the darkness, could see them by their movement, and by the ambient light that shone off their pale, naked skin. They raced toward him, and around him, long limbs reaching for ground, eyes and gaping mouths like black holes in their faces. He could see the ones in front of him, and he knew that there were others moving to his right and left, too many for him to be able to take out. But he stood his ground and he hoped.

  He fired, forcing accuracy out of himself. Not conscious thought, but just old habits, good habits, repeated and practiced time and time again. He watched their faces in the strobe of his muzzle flashes. He watched the bullets rip into them, but not stop them. They kept moving forward.

  BOOM!

  The rifle from Brinly’s marksman sounded out and Lee watched one of the creatures spill backward like it had run its neck into a clothesline. Lee kept firing at his own target, five rounds, eight rounds, twelve rounds, center mass and tracking up into its chest cavity and finally splashing through its cranium and spilling the thing limply to the ground.

  He turned, found another target, started shooting at it, knowing he would have to change his magazine in the next few rounds, knowing that there was zero room for error, and that even if he was perfect, even if he did everything right, his chances were slim.

  He pulled his trigger, and he listened in the briefest respite between gun blasts, listened for the sound of those big metal doors opening up and letting Sam in, getting him to safety, because that was what had become important. But he could not hear the door opening. All he could hear was a strange, thrumming, buzzing noise that seemed like it was growing out of his chest.

  This time the hunter fell at his feet, one gnarled hand clutching its chest wounds as blood spewed out of them, and the other still grasping for Lee’s feet, forcing him to take a few steps back.

  Did Sam already get inside? Did he get in?

  New target. Shoot it. Shoot it. SHOOT IT!

  The hollow, stunted feeling of the bolt locking back. No more rounds. Empty magazine.

  Shapes around him. Darkness. Darker shadows.

  BOOM, the DM taking another down, but still too many.

  Listening for the sound of Sam, for the sound of the doors, but hearing only the buzzing, which was no longer a buzzing, but a roaring sound, something mechanical, and he could definitely feel it in his chest now, all the way down into his gut, into his feet. He could feel wind kicking, could see it stirring everything around him, flinging dust from the gravel up into his eyes, but all of this was peripheral.

  His only thought was: New mag… new mag… quick quick quick!

  Lee ripped the empty magazine out of his rifle. Slammed a new one in.

  Pale arms reaching for him, impossibly close, making every nerve in his body scream. Lee sent his bolt forward and pulled the trigger the microsecond after he felt it slam home. Then twice more. Each time he watched his sight picture fall down back onto the creature’s chest as the rounds split it open, three and then four holes in its chest, and then it was pitching backward.

  All at once the thundering, mechanical noise became so obvious that Lee felt like an idiot for not knowing what it was, and at the same moment, the rotor wash beat him down and the sound of high-pitched turbines filled his ears. There was a roar and Lee looked up and got only the barest impression of something big and black going over the top of the Camp Ryder building, maybe a mere twenty feet above the roof, if that.

  A yellow bloom erupted from the side of the hovering black shape, and in its explosive glow, Lee could see the relief of a UH-60 Black Hawk. Streaks of red tracers lanced out and Lee had time enough to fear that they were aimed at him, before he realized that the rounds were directed at the creatures that surrounded him.

  Lee fell to a crouch, hands up over his head, knowing that those rounds were 7.62 mm projectiles, and they would smash his arms in two on their way through his body, but the reaction was instinctive as the bullets slapped the ground around him, so close that he could feel the impact through his boots. He squinted his eyes to protect them from the debris flying from the impacts, and he could feel the sting as chips of rock pelted his face, his bared teeth. But he didn’t dare close his eyes. He couldn’t bring himself to do it.

  The big black bird was rolling in a slow circle, displaying its broadside to give the gunner a clear shot down at the targets. The gunner was unloading, not stopping, giving it everything he had. Lee could see the outline of someone behind that angry muzzle. They worked the M240 back and forth in raking sweeps. Then they would concentrate ten or fifteen rounds in one spot. Then go back to raking.

  Lee was staring straight across at one of the hunters, just six feet from him. And all he could see was stark, animal eyes, and jaws that were open wide enough to latch on to his jugular…

  Then the fire from the M240 concentrated again, and the thing was pummeled to bits and pieces.

  Lee’s heart felt like it was hammering in his chest to the same speedy rhythm of the rotors. Or maybe it was just the sensation of them beating the air, and the air beating his chest, and the gunfire chattering away. And then it ceased for a second. Lee’s eyes had been dazzled by the strobe effect of the machine gun and he couldn’t see the helicopter anymore. Then the machine gun lit up again, then paused, then lit up again, as the bird finished a slow sweep of the Camp Ryder compound.

  “What the fuck?” someone shouted from the roof. Their voice was neither happy nor angry. Just bewildered.

  Lee looked around him, saw nothing but devastation. The hunters were sprawled around him, some close enough to touch. A few were still alive, though their death throes were weakening even as Lee watched them. Others twitched, but in the way that Lee knew there was no real life left in them.

  He put a hand to steady himself, felt the blessed gravel hit his palm, felt glad that he was alive to feel it, though shocked. He looked behind him to the front door of the Camp Ryder building and he could see the light coming from inside, the doors hanging open. He could see Sam standing there, still holding his rifle, and Abby beside him, holding to him with the same tenacity.

  They’re alive. They’re alive. That’s all that matters.

  Helicopter… who the fuck sent the helicopter?

  Lee watched the bird do another quick pass of the grounds, looking like it was sweeping the area for any more targets, and then it drew up into a hover and started sinking down. Lee watched the dark shape becoming clearer and more defined as it lowered past the tree line, straight into the center of the Square.

  “You wanna tell me who the hell this is?” Staley demanded, appearing next to Lee’s side. He must have been at the door, waiting for Lee, when the bird showed up. His voice showed a rare strain of anger. Whoever had been manning the gun on that helicopter had just saved their lives—Lee’s in particular. But they could just as easily have taken them out. And Staley clearly didn’t like that.

  Lee looked at the colonel, confused. “It’s not yours?”

  “No, it’s not fucking mine!”

  Lee looked back out toward The Square. The Black Hawk was settling onto its wheels, the whine of the rotors changing in pitch. Men poured out. Lee raised his rifle but didn’t call out to the men because he knew that he wouldn’t be heard over the helicopter’s massive engines.

  The men moved swiftly and expertly. There were five or six of them. They all had rifles, but they weren’t assaulting. They were clearing. Addressing the fallen infected to make sure they were dead. And two of the men were running straight for the Ca
mp Ryder building. Lee could see that they both had rifles, but they were holding their hands up, waving in an obvious nonthreatening manner.

  Lee lowered the muzzle of his rifle, feeling suddenly loose and limp with relief. One of the men grinned broadly at him and held a thumbs-up for him to see. Lee shook his head, managing to grin back. Then he returned the gesture.

  “You sonofabitch,” was all Lee could think to say, and it came out breathy and tired. Tomlin met him just a few yards from the front doors of the Camp Ryder building as people began to push out and speak to each other in low, excited tones. Tomlin’s grin was still there, though it had more of a worried look to it now. When he saw Lee he shook his head, his eyes going wide. “Jesus, Lee… how’s that for timing? Is anyone hurt?”

  Lee grabbed Tomlin’s hand, pulling him in for a slap on the back. “I’d say that’s good fucking timing. It was about to get real nasty, though.” Lee looked over Tomlin’s shoulder. “With all of that said… what the fuck is this?”

  Tomlin turned and pointed to the man that had come out of the helicopter with him. He was of medium build, with a balding head and a manicured beard and eyes that were sharp to the point of being unpleasant. He wore nondescript clothing: a black parka, tan pants, and tan boots. The weapon strapped to his chest was a stubby MP5 that was almost lost in his parka.

  The man stepped forward and smiled a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Master Sergeant Gilliard. Delta. You must be Captain Harden.”

  “That’s me,” Lee replied. “You must be from Fort Bragg.”

  “Yes, we are.”

  Lee gestured to Staley. “Colonel Staley with the Marines out of Camp Lejeune.”

  The two men shook.

  Master Sergeant Gilliard seemed amused. “Shit. You got the joint chiefs inside?”

  Lee shook his head. “No, but we got a lot of civilians.”

  Gilliard shrugged. “What’s the difference, right?”

  Tomlin touched Lee on the shoulder. His face had grown serious. “C’mon, Lee. We gotta talk.”

  extras