Steele hobbled for the gigantic rubble-ridden hole in his line. He couldn’t tell how many had gotten through. Ten? Trucks sped across the field for the gap in Little Sable’s defenses. The pastor could smell that victory was at hand and had sent all his men forward. We had a good cause.
Kevin stumbled up, blood running down his face, arm in arm with old Bengy. Steele grabbed Kevin by his shirt.
“Both of you get out of here.” Kevin nodded, his face wide-eyed in fear.
“Okay,” Kevin breathed. Bengy halted with a hand on Kevin’s chest.
“Old Ben, we need to leave,” Kevin said hurriedly.
Bengy unraveled himself from Kevin’s arm and held up a hand. “It’s okay,” Bengy said with a nod.
Steele knew the stubborn look in the old man’s eye. “Find anyone that’s left and leave,” he said to Kevin. Kevin rushed away, momentarily stopping to help up an injured man. Bengy stood, watching him go. The old man smiled as if he were remembering a life long past in a moment. He sighed.
Steele gave him a sidelong glance as the trucks raced for the chink in Sable’s perimeter armor.
“It’s time,” was all the old man said.
Steele nodded. The man would make his stand here. “I suppose it is.”
Steele collected himself and stepped into the gap. He steadied his breathing, stopping short as he sent a burst of rounds through the nearest pickup window. The driver slumped down, causing the truck to ram into another portion of Sable Point, sending Chosen out of the bed of the truck into the air. Their forms writhed, twisted, and crashed into the ground.
Shooting, Steele let his M4 carbine sing away, round after round, note after note. Bengy’s M1 Garand added its harsh booming tones to Steele’s quick, lighter notes of gunfire. For a brief moment in time, they sounded like a gunfire duet.
Soon Steele found his gun dry, no magazines left in his vest, and he transitioned to his M9 Beretta. He capped rounds at three men, giving each one a round as he transitioned targets. As he turned back to address the two still standing, he hardly noticed something bite into his strong-side arm. His arm fell to his side, limp. He opened his right hand and switched the firearm over to his support hand. He canted the weapon slightly more than normal and unloaded it at the driver opening the door of the nearest pickup truck. Bullet holes littered his windshield. The driver slumped in his seat.
It was at that moment he noticed how quiet the world had grown around him. Steele turned to look over his shoulder. Bengy lay in the grass behind him. Dune grass tapped his weathered face and his chest was flat, his wood-stocked Garand still clutched in his hands. See you soon, old-timer.
The trucks stole his attention away. They rumbled within ten yards of him and formed a semicircle around the hole in Sable Point that Steele and Bengy had plugged with their bodies. Over a hundred men encircled him, their weapons lined up in his direction. They walked forward as if they stalked him, only stopping when they were close, waiting for the command to pulverize his body with lead.
“I want him alive,” came a voice from the back. The ranks of the Chosen parted in reverence and the pastor walked forward as if he glided atop the dune grass and sand alike.
Steele lifted his arm upright. He narrowed an eye and ignored the natural movement of the gun. The trigger snapped back. Click. The pastor did not flinch. He walked with impunity out of the folds of his army and into the open with Steele. A shepherd among his flock. He drew himself upright in front of Steele. His chin rose upward, and his look was one of a disappointed father.
“Drop your gun, fool,” the pastor said. “Your defiance is over. You’ve lost.”
Steele met his eyes and dropped the gun. I might be able to send the hawk through his skull before they annihilate me. The gunfire lessened now. A tat-tat-tat snare drummed out. A few single round shots. Little Sable Point had been overrun fast.
Steele cross-drawed his tomahawk from his belt with his off hand. He gripped it tight. I need a single second and a half. The hawk will need two full rotations to hit him square in the chest. Wind shouldn’t affect the throw, only whether or not they can shoot me before I get the throw off.
“Surrender, Mr. Steele. There is no need for more bloodshed. Your tenacity is unmatched but lacks the power of God. Much like the fallen angels, you were a dastardly opponent but destined for defeat from the very beginning for God’s victory is assured,” the pastor said.
Peter’s blond curls shook as he bobbed his head in acknowledgment of their victory. More of the Chosen pushed forward to get a glimpse of their defeated enemy. They sneered at Steele and jeered him. The pastor spread his arms wide like a soaring eagle, giving a shout.
“God wills it!” he shouted. He raised his arms high in the air looking to the clouds.
“God wills it!” he shouted again, pumping his arms toward the sky.
“God wills it!” they all shouted. The pastor’s men echoed the call of victory. Over and over, their cheers went up to the heavens, filling the air that had once been buffeted by gunshots.
Other captives were led to where Steele stood. Tess was manhandled next to him, her eye black.
“Fuck you,” Tess shouted.
Margie’s body was thrown down at Steele’s feet. She lay unmoving, blood coming from her head. Nathan and Gregor were shoved next to Steele. Other men and women from the community cowered in their small defeated circle of people. Too few of them had made it.
“What have I done?” Steele lamented aloud. Warm blood ran down his arm, dripping off his fingers like a leaky spigot. Drip. Drip. Drip. His lifeblood leaked out onto the sand. Who were you to lead these people to their deaths? Who were you to stand up to the many with so few? Who were you to have hope? Who were you? I am…
He let his tomahawk fall from his fingers. Pain shot down his arm from destroyed nerve endings. He grabbed the shredded flesh where his tricep used to be. Holding it, he tried to keep push it back in. His leg didn’t seem so bad now compared to his ruined arm. The shouts of his enemies echoed in his ears, almost sounding far away.
The pastor stepped closer, waving his followers down to silence. Steele leaned on Tess, taking weight off his leg.
“That’s better, Mr. Steele. Finally, we have a bit of cooperation. Many good men were martyred today fighting for God. Many people could have been given life, but instead, you are responsible for their deaths.” A weight I will carry with me until my last breath.
“The tree of liberty is watered with the blood of tyrants and patriots alike,” Steele managed to utter. His voice seemed almost soft under the oppression of the pastor and his men.
“Ah yes, Patrick Henry. Misguided use of the phrase, but you are adamant. The way of the Lord is a refuge for the blameless, but it is the ruin of those who do evil. You are a tumor that needs to be cut away. Better to be done with it than wait. You are unable to be redeemed in God’s eyes, of that I am sure. Peter, gasoline.”
Peter grinned as he carried the gas cans forward.
When Peter got close, he hissed. “You deserve this.” He tossed the oily liquid on Steele’s clothes. “For what you done to me. For the good brothers and sisters you killed today.” He splashed the gas on Steele’s face.
The gasoline stung his eyes. Steele turned his head away and squeezed his eyes shut. Other Chosen came forward with more cans, tossing their contents upon the people of Little Sable Point. The oily liquid burned his wounds as it flowed over his body. He would soon burst into a screaming ball of flame. The pain that would envelop his body would be infinitely worse than what he currently experienced. Steele wiped it away from his eyes with his good hand.
“No, please,” his people screamed.
Gregor stood tall, letting the gasoline drip along his skin and down his long hair.
“Please, please, please,” a woman cried, her chin to her chest. The Chosen continued to dump fuel onto their battered bodies. It drenched their hair and faces and soaked their clothes. The terrifying apprehension of being burn
ed alive rippled through them as if they were already on fire.
“No. No,” screamed Donald. He tried to run for the Chosen. A gun boomed and he clutched his stomach, sinking to the ground. Donald moaned as the Chosen dragged him back to the remainders of Little Sable. They dropped him and the man groaned on the ground. Nathan rushed forward and put a hand on his wound.
Tess hugged Steele’s body tight, and he draped his damaged arm over her shoulder. She held him up more than he held her. It was the smallest of comforts in a world that was about to be set afire and burnt to nothing.
“It’s okay,” he whispered. “The children are safe.” Gwen is safe along with our child. Tess sniffled into his chest.
“Fuck them,” she said into him. “Psychopaths,” she sobbed.
“It’ll be okay, Tess,” Steele assured her. Empty words for an empty world. A world that seemed to take pleasure in snuffing out life wherever it found it.
Tess wiped gasoline from her face, blinking up at him.
The pastor smiled wickedly at him. “No enemy of God can stand before him. Now we must pray.” The pastor turned his eyes to the sky and clasped his hands in front of his body. “I send your souls to hell in God’s name. May you languish there for an eternity with no reprieve for what you’ve done to God’s Chosen people. Amen.” Amens echoed from his followers.
A slimy long-haired fellow flicked a lighter and smiled. He handed it to the pastor. The pastor held it up for all his followers to see. They cheered in joyful bliss. Their fists jabbed the sky. Their shouts rang true in victory.
The pastor walked for them, lighter in hand, and stopped. The flame of his lighter whimpered and disappeared. He stared at the suspect lighter, a brief moment of doubt dancing across his face. He looked at the lighter and back at Steele as if he had committed some sort of witchcraft.
“Devilry,” the pastor said.
A wind came off the water, blowing into the groups of combatants on the field. It died down and the pastor flicked his thumb again. And again. His followers were quiet as they watched their leader struggle with a simple light. The ragged remnants of the Little Sable Point community held their breath.
Steele’s legs shook as if the ground itself vibrated beneath him. He stared at his feet for a moment. Blood, sand, and filth stained his boots. He was unsure if he was almost done bleeding out and likely to collapse.
Others felt it. They stared at the ground in alarm. They looked about, uncertainty clouding their faces. A soft far-off rumble became a deafening roar.
Men at the back of the pastor’s army shouted and pointed. The Chosen soldiers ran, looking for cover. Guns cracked, and Steele saw them now.
Atop their steel steeds, they rode across the paved ground. Their engines roared out and the earth trembled beneath them. A single, red-bandana clad, gray-bearded man led hundreds of two-wheeled demons. He pointed a short shotgun with one hand and it ripped fire into the pastor’s men. Black leather covered them. Half helmets. Skull caps. Biker vests flapped in the wind as they raced for the pastor’s men. Guns blazed in their hands and the Chosen soldiers fell into confusion.
Thunder took his motorcycle into the field of battle, his honor guard of Red Stripes around him. Fat Half-Barrel sprayed buckshot with his sawed-off shotgun into a group of Chosen. They fell to the ground, crippled in pain. Garrett capped his handgun, aiming left and right across his handlebars, a wicked grin under his beard.
They raced past the pastor’s men, shooting as they sped by. Some riders put their bikes down as Chosen bullets struck them, but they were few. The motorcycles split down the middle, encircling the Chosen. Chosen soldiers threw down their guns and tried to run for the trees.
The pastor locked eyes with Steele. He wavered, turning around and watching his people be surrounded in horror. He knew now that his end was near. Steele coughed a bit and smiled.
“You. You wretched devil. You planned this?” the pastor sputtered, anger creasing his aged features.
Steele released Tess and bent down for his tomahawk. He felt every pellet in his leg. He felt his lifeblood leaking from his arm. His fingers wrapped around the oily gasoline and sand-covered shaft, making it slick with coarse grime.
More of the pastor’s men threw down their guns and put their hands in the air. Steele hobbled forward. With each step Steele took, the pastor grew older. Steele placed the axe head of his tomahawk onto the pastor’s long crane of a neck. The pastor shifted his chin up and away from Steele’s blade.
Steele looked up at him, making sure his eyes never left the pastor’s. “He’s a bit late, but my man showed when he had too.”
The pastor’s mouth twisted and he spat on the ground. “Damnation is eternal for enemies of God.”
“Let me know how that works out for you.”
Around Steele, Thunder’s bikers disarmed the Chosen soldiers. Hundreds of bikers moved through them. Wild-eyed women. Braided-goateed men. Shiny bald heads. Long unkempt-haired women and men alike. All rough people sporting colors of different motorcycle clubs: black wolves, coiled steel snakes on a yellow background, playing card eights, skulls and gears, the reaper standing over a coffin, and seven naked women holding swords.
Motorcycles rode down the retreating men that fled the field. A few gunshots were heard over the motorcycle engines, but the battle was over.
Steele could only grin at the pastor. A shadowed man moved nearby. Steele yelled over at a confused Peter. “Let’s put those gas cans down. We don’t want you hurting yourself.” Peter’s face dropped as if Steele had physically beaten him again. Peter set down the gas cans, taking a step away, hands in the air. He lowered his eyes.
The Red Stripes rolled close before cutting their engines and dismounting their motorcycles.
“Thunder,” Steele yelled out. He removed his axe head from the pastor’s throat. The gray-bearded man swung his big belly off his chopper and adjusted his pants.
“Steele,” he said, almost as if he were a proud father. A wide grin revealed his teeth underneath his thick beard. “Saw the lighthouse blazing from five miles out.”
Steele limped forward, his hand still squeezing the hell out of his tomahawk.
“Good,” Steele said. When he got close to Thunder, he punched Thunder square in the nose, knocking the old man back onto his ass. Half-Barrel put his sawed-off to the side of Steele’s skull.
Thunder’s hand leapt out to his man. “Half-Barrel, no!” He lifted a hand to his nose, examining his own blood with a twist of his fingers. “I deserved that.”
“You sure as hell did. You killed Steve. That wasn’t part of the deal,” Steele’s head felt like it had been stuffed with cotton. His legs felt weak like his muscles were leaving him.
Thunder stood. “He tried to stop us. He was going to shoot us.”
“That’s good training,” Steele said, breathing hard. His heart pounded in his chest. He collapsed, his body meeting the ground with a thud. The sky turned black above him.
KINNICK
Dunluce Pass, CO
“Status?” Kinnick yelled into the mic of his radio as he ran. His face hardened as repeated gunfire echoed off the rocky slopes. Kinnick bounded right up against Stark’s Platoon. The men supported themselves against the barricade, waiting with nervous eyes. Stark gave him a fierce look over his shoulder.
“Elwood? What’s your status?” Kinnick breathed.
Kinnick stood tall in the pass behind his men. His breath came out shallow in his chest. His hands were slick on his M4 carbine. “Come on, Elwood,” he said under his breath.
Gunfire boomed. High wails and deep moans bellowed from around the bend. Undead voices echoed up the road following the rocky slopes into the pass. All the voices blended into a single hell song that sucked the pure natural silence from the mountain pass.
Within moments, the front ranks of the dead stepped forward as if they were part of an ancient undead phalanx of hoplites. Undead bodies tripped and fell as bullets zipped through them, spraying f
lesh and blood onto the concrete. They marched at a slow determined rate, letting their brethren be trampled where they fell with no regard for them.
Fire blazed through the mountain trees where Elwood’s fire teams were set up in ambush above the road. The left flank of the undead horde withered under machine gun fire from the slope. The dead on the right flank were pushed off the mountain roadside, driven over the edge by the butchered bodies of their fellow infected.
A minute raged and the fire team on the ridge made headway decimating the dead with fiery lead. Until the reload.
“Fuck,” Kinnick swore. A private on the barricade firing line let his carbine go, firing.
“Hold that fire, private,” Stark screamed at his man. The dead surged forward as the bullets ceased to hold them back. Hundreds pushed over each other, slipping over the slick blood spilt on the ground. Exposed intestines tangled around their legs brought them down, but they persisted, knowing nothing except death to all things living.
“Colonel. Elwood. Position one.” A hard breath pushed into the mic. “Positions one and two are gone. Turner, Singer, and Montero are dead. There are too many.”
“Keep those M240s going.”
“Yes, sir.”
Moments later, the machine gun was up and running again. The infected twitched as bullets entered and exited their bodies. An infected was cut in half as he climbed the hill for Elwood’s fire teams. He continued to crawl until an M4 round through the skull stopped him.
Kinnick’s master sergeant stood to the side letting off single rounds, dropping pack leaders with individual bullets. The horde surged forward ignoring bullets and the soldiers on the hill alike.
“Don’t fire until you see the white of their eyes,” Hunter shouted, but it was too late. His voice was overcome by hot lead, as Stark’s Platoon unloaded into the horde. Claymores exploded farther down the hill.
The Rising (The End Time Saga Book 3) Page 39