The Rising (The End Time Saga Book 3)

by Daniel Greene

  It’s too early Elwood. It’s too early.

  Kinnick let his radio drop to the dirt. He hefted his M4 carbine and joined his men on the line.

  “Hold this pass, goddamnit,” Kinnick screamed at them. He wasn’t sure they heard. He may have only said it to give himself courage. His M4 carbine’s bolt pumped in almost slow motion as the ejector flung out spent cartridges from his extraction port. Dropping his mag to the ground, he shoved a full one in its place, reloading. Bullets thudded into the bodies. He aimed high for their ugly curdled milk-colored eyes, ending their pitiful existence with every round fired.

  The heavy lead smell of spent cartridges and brass hung over them, enveloping them in a cloud polluting the mountain freshness. Gun smoke that surrounded them dissipated into the air, and tiny specks of white fluttered down, finding a way in the madness battle.

  “You got your snow,” Hunter shouted at him. He laughed a wild roar. He screamed at the top of his lungs. “Get some, boys.”

  Kinnick put out a hand, his fingers outstretched. A small, jaggedly individual sterling white snowflake rested gently on his hand. It stayed for a moment in his palm and then melted into a droplet of water. His eyes veered skyward.

  The little flakes of white taunted him as they floated upon the bodies of the infected, most still moving, others trampled beneath their feet. If the snow had come a week ago, none of these men would have had to fight here. They only would have needed to sit and do a boring overwatch while letting Mother Nature do the work of blockading the passes.

  The dead pushed forward, not driven by courage or even fear. The need to murder every single one of Kinnick’s men is what kept them going. These undead monsters wanted only to feast upon their corpses. The unlucky ones would stand up again as infected blood raced through their veins, giving chase to the men that had been brothers only moments before.

  “Get those 203s going,” Hunter yelled.

  Multiple single shot M203A grenade launchers thumped 40mm grenades into the mass of bodies. Limbs exploded outward, splashing into pieces and red mush upon the rocks. The bodies piled up and no piece of road lay untouched by the dead.

  Stark’s Platoon gave up a worn-out cheer. Hands slapped backs. Smoke settled down on the road in a gray fog.

  “Stay alert,” Hunter said into the smoke. “Reload those mags,” he shouted. Men hurriedly complied, heads bobbing as they looked from their mags to the road. “You know these bastards will come again.” The sound of clinking bullets dominated the air. Raw fingers struggled to push down, mag springs fighting their tired fingers. They moved more from muscle memory than concentrated effort. Corporal Burbeck stared out, his eyes wide and unblinking, as his fingers shoved rounds into a magazine.

  Kinnick’s hand fell upon his radio. “Lieutenant Elwood, do you copy, over?” Kinnick said.

  Static buzzed. He gazed along over his remaining soldiers holding the pass. I could send a fire team up the left flanking slope. Split your little platoon into little pieces and then they will die in little pieces. What can you hold this with when they come again?

  “Lieutenant Elwood?” he said letting the mic depress. “Fuck me,” he said under his breath.

  “Get those boxes of 7-6-2 rounds up here,” Hunter yelled at two men from 2nd Platoon. They ran off looking for giant boxes of belted ammunition.

  The master sergeant turned to Kinnick. “Want me to run up there?”

  Kinnick eyed the slope. Forms came from the trees. One fell down the elevated slope.

  “Infected,” Hunter hissed. He fired six shots before they went down. “I think that last one was one of ours.”

  “I know,” Kinnick said. Write those men off for dead. We are the last.

  His radio buzzed. “Colonel,” a man whispered. Kinnick held the microphone up to his lips while he watched the ridge.

  “Lieutenant Elwood? Sitrep, over?”

  “We’ve been overrun. They butchered them. The ugly bastards didn’t even blink.” His voice shook, sobs coming through the radio.

  Kinnick eyed his master sergeant. “That little shit is laying down up there?” Hunter grabbed the mic from Kinnick’s hands. His beard touched his chest as he yelled. “Elwood, you stupid pussy. Die like a man or get your ass down the hill. You ain’t helping us right now.”

  “Yes. I…I…I’ll wait for them to pass. Yes.” Seconds ticked by as he rustled over the radio. “They’re eating Sergeant Putnam,” he sobbed.

  Kinnick grabbed the mic back from Hunter.

  “Soldier. Get your act together or you will die,” Kinnick ordered. A minute passed and screams permeated the hillside.

  Kinnick closed his eyes a moment. Hunter frowned, his eyes gliding to the top of the slope. A bloodied man stumbled down the slopes. Rock and gravel rolled in front of him, tumbling down the hill at his feet. His boots dug into the loose rocky soil for traction.

  “Will you look at that?” Hunter said.

  The man slipped and ran down the hillside, a slight hunch in his back.

  “Everyday I get surprised,” Kinnick responded.

  The man stumbled into the pass. His chest heaved, stretching in and out. Hunter raised his M4 to his shoulder.

  “Don’t shoot,” Elwood cried at them, holding up his bloodied hands.

  “You bit?” Hunter yelled.

  “Nah. No,” Elwood stuttered. His young eyes were clear and wide, no sign of infection.

  “Let him through, Master Sergeant,” Kinnick said. Elwood crawled over the barricade, taking refuge behind Stark’s Platoon. “You did what you could.” Kinnick’s brow creased. “No one else?”

  “I don’t know, sir,” Elwood said panting. “It was chaos. They were all over the slopes.”

  Kinnick patted the young lieutenant on the arm. His arm shook beneath Kinnick’s hands. “Master Sergeant, get this man a gun.”

  The master sergeant chucked an M4 carbine at the young officer. “Be a pleasure.”

  Elwood caught the M4, eying it as if it had sold him out in the past.

  “We need everyone in this fight. No time for anything else,” Kinnick said.

  Elwood’s wide camel-colored eyes blinked. He gulped and nodded his head once.

  “Here they come,” a private yelled from the front. Forms emerged from the mountain’s gun smoke haze. Both Kinnick and Elwood faced the threat.

  “The dead,” Kinnick whispered. With no machine guns hitting their flank, the horde came on uninhibited. With torn clothes and matted hair, dead gray-skinned infected came for them. They dragged their battered, maimed limbs behind them. Torn flesh flapped free like the wing of a lazy bird. They came for revenge against their camouflage-wearing foes.

  The undead ranks were so swollen that those on the right side of the horde were pushed off the edge. They fell soundlessly from the mountains, arms still stretched for Kinnick and his men.

  “Fire, fire,” Stark screamed at the men. His colder than ice eyes blazed as he yelled. Kinnick shouldered his carbine, letting it kick away at the crux of his armpit. He aimed at their heads, firing faster than he should. It seemed the only thing to do. Shoot as fast as he could at the mass of people. Unload everything they had. When they found Kinnick and his men later, they wouldn’t have a bullet left.

  Brains ejected backward as bullets entered their skulls, but their effort, even with the machine guns rattling away, did little to stop the mass of the undead. It was war, but there was no glory to be found in this battle of extermination. It was mere slaughter. During the minutes of heavy gunfire, the dead had forced themselves to within yards of the makeshift barricade. Guns blasted and no one could hear.

  In the madness, Hunter, standing near Kinnick, sprayed bullets into the dead. It was impossible to miss. Kinnick took a step back as infected men grasped Hunter’s gun over the barricade. Their hands slipped and their flesh burnt as they pulled at the barrel of his gun. Hunter wrestled his weapon away from them, getting closer to their grasping hands in the struggle. They were a stin
king monstrosity of heads and arms and legs. One leapt forward, reaching for Hunter. It’s hooked and broken fingers plunged into Hunter’s face. He recoiled backward, holding his face. Blood oozed white and red between his fingers.

  Kinnick shot into the horde, pulling Hunter back by his tactical vest with his other hand.

  “Fallback point,” Kinnick yelled. He led Hunter back ten feet. His master sergeant bent at the waist trying to hold whatever was left of his eye in. Stark held the barricade. Throwing down his M4 to the ground, he snatched up an M240 from the hands of a disemboweled man. He held the weapon to his shoulder, and with the other hand, he let the linked ammunition drape over his arm. His gun ate the ammo fast as he unleashed it into the faces of the dead. His shoulder rocked in time with propulsion of bullets from the gun’s barrel.

  “Arrrrgggggh!” he yelled as he blasted into his foes. Hands grasped for him, tearing his combat uniform. Kinnick turned, still holding Hunter, shooting the undead off of Stark.

  “Fall back,” Kinnick screamed. Stark’s Platoon started to backpedal. Private Warren turned and ran for the pass, followed by Burbeck.

  The high-speed rattle of bullets stopped and Stark swam the M240 machine gun back and forth into the gory skeletal faces of the infected. An infected man caught Stark’s arm in his mouth, tearing tissue free. Stark recoiled in horror. The infected stuffed Stark’s flesh into its mouth. Stark punched its face in, knocking it back into a thousand others. He went to punch them as well, and this time, their teeth clamped down and took the fingers off his hand. He held his hand up in front of his face, watching the blood spurt from his stumps. Other hands reached him and yanked the soldier over the barrier.

  The remainders of Stark’s Platoon broke at the fall of their leader.

  “To the rally point,” Kinnick shouted. His men ran. Those nearest the barricade were swarmed over. A private screamed as ten infected tore around his body armor, digging blackened hands into his neck in-between his collarbones.

  Blood pounded in Kinnick’s head as he ran. His heartbeat echoed in his eardrums as his feet struggled to run over the roadway. He chanced a glance over his shoulder. Hunter clapped his firing device together as he sprinted behind Kinnick. Clack. Clack. Clack. A moment later, claymores lining the pass exploded outward into the dead. Bodies crawling over the barricade were shredded in place, stacking them atop of one another. The barricade grew taller with the bodies of the infected.

  “That bought us a minute,” Hunter grunted from behind. They retreated for the rally point. The rough, rocky landscape gave way to a small round of trees on a tiny hill no more than twenty feet of elevation from the road.

  Kinnick’s legs burned with lactic acid. His arms screamed in exhaustion. Spent, scared men collapsed in the small grouping of trees.

  “Your eye,” Kinnick said.

  “I’ve seen worse,” Hunter returned. Blood continued to ooze between his fingers as he ripped open a trauma pack from his cargo pocket. He wrested out gauze and grunted as he stuffed it into his torn eye socket. Gauze ends stuck out of his eye like pink cotton candy.

  “Here,” Kinnick pulled out a tan bandage, winding it around his skull. The master sergeant held a painful smile.

  “It’s fine. We gotta get these boys back in the fight,” Hunter said.

  Scared eyes looked back at Kinnick and Hunter. The soldiers were at the end of their rope. Death came for them, and it took them fast and without remorse. I should have fought for more men. Now, I have led these brave few souls to their deaths. Fool.

  Hunter read the look on his face. His single eye darted back and forth. He nodded and did his due diligence, setting the men to tasks, knowing that it would be their final assignment.

  “Corporal Warren, get that machine gun set up. Burbeck, lay out the 40mms. You got to hit that pass over and over when they get through the wall. Paterson, you keep Warren in the fight. We got at least five more boxes of the 7-6-2 for the 240. Remember your lineage, Bunker Hill Brigade. Always steadfast, fight like the devil, and don’t give an inch to the bastards.”

  Kinnick pulled out his high-frequency radio. He stared at the dusty handset in desperation. He twisted to the corresponding channel and pressed the handset to his ear. The radio beeped at him. No point in having pride now.

  “NORAD Operations,” a voice said on the line.

  “This is Colonel Kinnick. Requesting air support, danger close. We’ve been overrun.”

  Gunshots popped off nearby.

  A new voice came on the line. “This is General Daugherty.”

  Not you. “Sir, this is Kinnick. We are requesting close air support and exfiltration. Our hold has been broken.” Snow flurries continued their downward descent from the sky and through the trees.

  “I’m not surprised to hear from you, Kinnick, but I’m not happy about it either.”

  “Sir, we are being overrun. We need immediate assistance.”

  General Daugherty paused.

  I don’t have time for pauses.

  “There’s nothing I can do. It’s out of my hands.”

  Was that remorse in the general’s voice? No matter now, we are all dead.

  “I understand, sir,” Kinnick said, eying the pass with dread. Dead hands pushed their way through the barricade with the sheer weight of numbers. The bodies stacked on the barricade were pushed all the way to the other side. The dead crawled over the bodies of the slain, foe and kindred alike.

  “Thank you for your service, Colonel. Good luck.”

  “Copy,” Kinnick mumbled.

  Kinnick hung up his radio handset. Bastards. It was a weird feeling knowing that he would soon be dead. It was a rough feeling knowing that his military was going to abandon them in a mountain pass in their own backyard like some abused dog.

  The enemy closed around them. Their heads swayed like buoys in an endless sea of flesh. The 40mm rounds thudded and exploded in the pass. He felt detached from this reality as the grenade rounds pounded the pass.

  The faint moans of the dead scratched his ears like fingernails down a chalkboard. The machine gun pounded away at his skull, but it was the screeching of aircraft that caught his attention. It was something that he was accustomed to, having been a pilot in what seemed like a previous life. He ignored the march of the dead, his eyes drawn to the gray billowing clouds.

  The high-frequency radio beeped. Kinnick snatched up the handset. “Colonel Kinnick, this is Raven. Heard you boys were in the thick. Permission to engage the pass, over?” a voice crackled over the radio.

  “Raven. General Daugherty said we are on our own. Where’d you come from?”

  “Battle-axe and I overheard your conversation with the general. We thought we would lend you boys a helping hand.” Kinnick was dumbstruck. He turned around in a circle, looking in the sky for them.

  “Jesus Christ, Raven. We are on our last leg. Fire away.”

  “Better hunker in real tight, Colonel, ’cause it’s going to get hot.”

  “Everybody, danger close!” Kinnick screamed. Hunter shot him a confused glance with his one eye. “They’re coming in hot.”

  Kinnick hopped down prone. Rocky earth ground into him. Dust puffed into the air. Seconds dragged by like the feet of the dead.

  “I’m out,” Warren yelled over his shoulder. The dead still poured through the pass. The onslaught of death ever approached Kinnick’s men. Thousands of moans cried victory as their feet pounded the earth with every step.

  “Keep firing,” Kinnick shouted at his men. The bullets of so few did little to thin the massive army of infected. The undead absorbed the bullets and the fallen alike, replacing their dead with even more infected. In no time, the infected were a few dozen steps away.

  The dead looked like people now. Mouths hung open. Heads tilted atop mangled necks. Shoulders drooped, attached to bullet hole riddled bodies. Gray skin sagged over skeletal frames. Disheveled, filthy hair coated scarred faces and lipless mouths. Some of their lips had been rubbed away from a
ll the feedings. Dead white eyes zeroed in on their next victims. The dead could smell victory and the flesh of men alike. Kinnick and his men would be dismembered as the horde passed over them. The front ranks of the dead would feed on them while the others would continue their drudge for the rest of humanity. The infected would march into Colorado and finish off the last bastion of the United States government in the Golden Triangle. And mankind would go with a whimper instead of a roar into the annals of earth’s long history. Extinct.

  Kinnick flipped a switch on the lower receiver of his gun. He took aim and let his carbine fire repeated three-round bursts. It did little to the mass of humanity. It was as if he shot a concrete wall. The infected reached for him with rotting, mangled fingers on broken hands.

  Shroom! Shroom! The earth shook as the jets went by. The ground began trembling beneath the assault from above. Fireballs erupted into fiery fingers that reached for the sky. A deafening roar assaulted his eardrums and an inferno rolled down the roadway, annihilating the infected.

  The dead nearest them were sent off their feet. Others near the pass were incinerated into flaming dust. Kinnick covered his head with his arms as pieces of charred flesh, rocks, and wood rained down on them. An infected head plopped down within feet of Kinnick, rolling to a halt near his leg. Its mouth lay permanently open, its skin charred black. Kinnick swatted it away with his free hand and grabbed his carbine with the other. He stood up to get a better view.

  “WaHoo. Get some,” shouted Burbeck, raising a fist in the air along with his M16A4.

  “How about them apples?” Warren called out at the rocky terrain of smoldering infected. Bodies that hadn’t been completely incinerated were aflame in blackish heaps of gooey flesh. Paterson stood up and wrapped his arm around Warren. The dead only caught in the shockwave were getting back to their feet.

  “Don’t celebrate too early,” Hunter said. “Let’s clear them out.”

  His remaining men smiled as they put bullets into the crawling dead. Hope had replaced certain death. Five minutes later, Kinnick joined Hunter, looking over the pass of death.