by Z. A. Recht
Mason kicked out hard, nailing Sawyer in the kneecap. He grunted, falling to his knees, and Mason leapt up, full-body tackling Sawyer.
For a split second, Mason flashed back to his hand-to-hand class. The instructor’s first lesson was a simple one.
‘Almost all fights start with both combatants on their feet,’ the instructor had said. ‘But you’ll find that in almost every case, both fighters will be on the ground within seconds. From there, it’s like chess: the endgame. Every move must have a purpose, or you’re dead. It’s as simple as that.’
Mason had an advantage. He found himself on top of Sawyer. He wasted no time, wailing mercilessly about the agent’s head and neck with a furious flurry of punches, bloodying Sawyer’s nose and mouth within moments.
Sawyer was helpless to block the blows, but he wasn’t done yet. He locked his leg around Mason’s, reaching up with one hand to grab at the fabric of his shirt. Mason felt the grab and knew what was coming—but the move was already set up. Sawyer heaved. His positioning gave him plenty of leverage. The pair found themselves rolling, and when they came to a rest, their positions were reversed—Sawyer sat on top and Mason was pinned beneath.
Sawyer managed one or two heavy blows before Mason flat-palmed him in the chin, cracking his jaw back and sending spit and blood flying through the air. While Sawyer reeled, Mason pushed back on his chest, freeing himself from the pin. He attacked again as Sawyer recovered, quickly locking both legs around his opponent’s chest from behind and working an arm up around his throat, his other arm holding Sawyer’s forehead back.
The fight was over. Mason knew it, and Sawyer knew it. From his position, Mason could snap Sawyer’s neck in one quick movement.
But Mason did neither. Combat simply ceased with both agents locked in their hold on the cold concrete floor.
“Do it,” Sawyer croaked. “Finish it.”
“If I did that,” Mason said, whispering in Sawyer’s bleeding ear, “I’d be no better than you, you piece of shit.”
Instead, Mason tightened his hold, closing off Sawyer’s air supply. The agent choked and gasped, struggling for air, beating his elbows into Mason’s ribcage, but the blows were weak, and grew weaker by the moment. It took no more than twelve seconds for Sawyer to slump into unconsciousness. Mason released his grip, letting his opponent fall face-first onto the floor.
The pain of Mason’s injuries started to creep into his mind as the adrenaline rush of the fight began to wear off. He felt weak, shaky, and the thought of lying down and taking a nap was very appealing. He might have actually considered it in his foggy state of mind if Anna’s MP-5 hadn’t started chattering out rounds one after the other. Mason sprang up, looking back in the direction of the safe room. The attackers had battered down both doors and Dr. Demilio was giving them something to think about before they went poking their heads in.
“It’s clear!” Mason called, picking up his own weapons and rushing to join the renewed fight. “Get in the cart! Quick!”
He hammered down, taking Anna’s spot and providing suppressing fire. Julie had already climbed in and started up the little buggy while glaring over her shoulder impatiently at her two compatriots. Anna jogged back to the cart and jumped in the back, pointing her weapon back in the direction of the safe room, covering Mason’s retreat.
The agent skipped backwards, sending rounds like raindrops in a spring shower back into their formerly safe hideaway. Return fire began to come in his direction from weapons held blindly around the corner, bullets ricocheting off the concrete and zipping around the concrete tunnel. One hit the only bulb in the entry ramp, plunging a section of the catacombs into darkness. Mason used the opportunity to turn tail and bolt for the cart. He jumped over Sawyer’s prone form, still moving full-bore, slamming into his seat and barking at Julie, “Go! Go! Go!”
They took off. The cart wasn’t a speed demon, but it moved at a pace that would keep up with your average human sprinter. As an afterthought, Mason turned around and fired again, this time sending his rounds into the second cart that Sawyer had obviously arrived in. Sparks flew from the cart’s panel and a plume of oily smoke rose up from the ruined board. Satisfied, Mason nodded to himself and turned forward once again.
Anna was still firing, forcing the men in the darkened corridor to remain covered. Even still, as the entryway receded in the distance, bullets chased after them. One winged the back of the cart with a loud crack, making Julie jump in the driver’s seat.
“Save your ammo,” Mason said to Anna. “We’ll probably need every round.”
The cart careened around a corner. Julie had taken a random turn, which was probably for the best; it might help throw off the pursuit that would most certainly be following. Mason allowed himself to fully relax. For the time being, they were safe enough.
Anna shouldered her weapon, then shoved Mason hard in the shoulder.
“Hey,” protested the agent. “What the hell?”
“You almost got us all killed back there!” Anna yelled. “If you’d taken ten more seconds with that stupid fight with Sawyer we would have been run down by those guys coming in the front door!”
“Oh, come off it,” Mason groaned. “First of all, there’re always a ton of ‘ifs’ in combat. For example, Doc, if those carriers hadn’t shown up and stalled that assault team, we’d have been killed for sure. If I hadn’t seen those footprints we wouldn’t have had any warning at all. If Sawyer hadn’t been such a pompous bastard in thinking he was going to take me down unarmed and by himself we would have been dead too—so don’t shove that crap down my throat. Besides, we’re alive.”
“Yeah, for now,” Anna replied, unconvinced.
Back at the entryway, the five remaining members of the assault team struggled to secure the safe room. The house above was packed to bursting with carriers of the Morningstar Strain. Every blast from a weapon had been like a dinner bell to them, beckoning them to the noise that meant warm, uninfected bodies, and since the doors had been battered down there was nothing hindering them. The remaining members of the assault team were doing the best they could, holding the broken door up in its frame and pressing against it with their body weight. The door shuddered under the blows of the carriers on the other side, but they could hold it for a while longer.
One of the assault troopers had clicked on a flashlight and was searching the entry tunnel. The beam landed on Sawyer’s unconscious form.
“Damn,” breathed the trooper, chuckling under his breath. “Asshole had it coming to him.”
He kneeled next to the agent, holding a pair of fingers to Sawyer’s neck. Finding a pulse, the man’s eyes widened. He hadn’t expected the rogues to let him live. Shrugging to himself, he slapped his hand on Sawyer’s cheek.
“ ’Ey. ’Ey. Wakie-wakie, sir,” he said.
Sawyer coughed, groaning and rolling his head to one side, batting the man’s hand away.
“Want an aspirin?” chuckled the trooper. Sawyer glared at him, holding up a hand to his bruised throat.
“What happened?” he croaked, voice brittle and weak after Mason’s strangulation.
“They got away. We could have gotten ‘em if we hadn’t got some company of our own,” said the trooper, jerking a finger over his shoulder at the three men holding the door up. The angry moans of the carriers and undead beyond were evident.
Sawyer sat up and pulled himself to his feet, gritting his teeth. Mason had been right. He’d been too overconfident. Well, that wasn’t a mistake he’d make again. He tossed one regretful look at the tunnels where Mason, Anna, and Julie had made their escape, then strode briskly into the light of the safe room. The trooper followed slowly, weapon at the ready.
Sawyer cast about, looking at the disturbed equipment and splintered door panel. He was a seasoned agent—looking for leads was a big part of his job. His eye fell upon the computer and the open CD tray in the tower.
“Hmm,” he breathed, walking over to the terminal. He was seemingly unint
erested in the peril they were all in with the carriers on the other side of the flimsy doorway. Single-minded, as always. He cracked his neck slowly, reading over the data on the screen. In her rush, Julie had left the browser open. His stare drifted downwards, until it reached the last few lines of text.
. . . in closing, findings indicate a tendency toward metabolic restructuring in most hosts. Until further information is available, suggest allocating resources to study this effect. All data classified top secret/eyes only. Further reports should be sent to CRF, Central Research Facility, Omaha, Nebraska.
Sawyer grinned widely.
“Got you.”
Oregon Coast
January 22, 2007
0830 hrs_
THERE WERE FORTY-FOUR survivors who had elected to join Sherman on the trek inland. They’d been on the move for almost two full days, rarely stopping except to eat or catch short, fitful naps. Sherman had them sticking to the side roads, walking in the tall grass on either side of the pavement. Every time a car or truck came rumbling by, the group would hit the dirt. Better to be safe than sorry.
Out in the forested wilds of the west coast of North America there were few carriers, if any. They’d seen a half dozen uninfected persons driving by, but no victims of the Morningstar Strain. Sherman had spent his last several hours on the Ramage studying maps and finally decided their destination would be a small town inland where they might be able to find themselves some transportation.
Of the forty-four, only twenty or so were armed. These men and women spread themselves out along the line of travelers, eyes scanning the underbrush and road for any sign of attack. The group had been undetected so far.
As the sun rose on the morning of their second day, they came upon the village Sherman had been aiming them towards.
Brewster, Denton, and Thomas crouched at the edge of a thicket, peering out across an open field towards a group of buildings in the distance. Thomas held a pair of binoculars to his eyes, studying the hamlet. The smaller towns were holding out well, it seemed. The lower windows of the buildings were boarded up in a ramshackle fashion and wrecked cars had been moved to blockade the streets that led in.
“Looks deserted,” Denton commented, scratching his chin.
“They’re in there,” Thomas grunted, handing the binoculars to Denton. “Got themselves buttoned up tight. Don’t think we should go walking up to ‘em.”
“Why not?” Brewster asked, shifting his weight, eager to do something besides march. “We’re friendly and we’re armed. They should welcome us.”
“They don’t know that,” Thomas replied. “Besides, read that sign they’ve got nailed up.”
“Where?” Denton asked, peering through the binoculars.
Thomas pointed and Denton swiveled his focus. There was a wire mesh board set up with a nicely printed sign:
Below that hung a sheet of plywood on which thick red paint had been smeared, spelling out a warning:
“Damn,” Denton sighed. “What now?”
“Next town’s more than twenty miles away,” Thomas said. “We can try to make contact or start walking.”
“Fuck that, let’s show ‘em a white flag,” Brewster suggested.
Thomas half-turned to glance at the private, quirking an eyebrow.
“That’s a first,” he grunted.
“What is?” Denton asked.
“The Private just made a halfway decent suggestion,” Thomas said. “Maybe we can get close enough to parley. They look holed up. Doubt they want to go anywhere. Maybe they’ll be able to get us some vehicles.”
“If there’s anyone left,” Denton noted, still peering through the binoculars. “I still haven’t seen a single person.”
“Let’s go,” said Thomas, standing and shouldering his MP-5. “We’ll let the General make the call.”
The three pulled back from the edge of the thicket, crouch-jogging through the underbrush to where the remainder of their group was quietly waiting.
“How’s it look?” asked Sherman as they approached.
“Town’s there,” Thomas answered. “But they don’t look like they want visitors.”
Sherman said, “Well, we’ve only got enough food for a few more days, and we can’t keep walking around in the open like this. We’ve got to try to get some transport and supplies.”
“If they’re in there, let’s send out a couple guys to try and make contact with them,” Brewster suggested.
“The white flag idea,” Thomas added.
“Think maybe they’ll be willing to deal?” Sherman asked, scratching at a couple days’ worth of beard stubble.
“Don’t know,” Thomas stated.
Denton shrugged, and Brewster coughed.
Sherman glanced at the three, then nodded his head once. “Alright, it’s settled. Private . . . Brewster, isn’t it? Pick two men and see if you can get the locals to come out of their houses.”
Brewster sat up sharply, looking left and right.
“Who, me? Shouldn’t an officer do that, or something?”
“Shit rolls downhill, private,” Thomas said. “Besides, it’s your idea.”
“Yeah, but we’re not exactly in the Army anymore, Sarge,” Brewster tossed back, earning a cold stare from the Sergeant Major.
“Call it a favor, then,” Sherman cut in before Thomas could rip into Brewster. “We’ll be right behind you. First sign of trouble and we’ll come in shooting.”
Brewster frowned, scratching a pattern in the dirt at his feet as he mulled it over.
“Alright,” he said slowly. “I want Krueger and Denton.”
“You want me?” Denton muttered. “Oh, hell.”
“Good choices. Denton, you’re a smooth talker. Krueger’s a great shot with his pistol,” Sherman said, nodding in approval. The soldier had already done more than his fair share, walking point in two twelve-hour shifts on their trek inland.
“Now all we need’s our white flag,” Brewster said.
Sherman unslung his pack and dug around inside until he found a clean t-shirt. He handed the garment to Brewster.
“Thread that on a stick. It’ll do.”
It took ten minutes to relay the plan to the forty-odd people in the entourage and for Brewster, Denton, and Krueger to get their gear in order. When they were ready, they stepped out of the underbrush on the road that led into town, Brewster holding aloft the t-shirt flag, Denton and Krueger holding their arms out and to the side to show they held no weapons. Behind them, in the foliage, crouched close to twenty armed men and women, keeping well out of sight and watching carefully for any sign of ambush or violence.
The three emissaries walked forward slowly and steadily until they neared the blockade in the road. There they stopped, casting glances at all the boarded-up windows.
“Starting to get a creepy feeling here,” commented Krueger. He was a compact little man, but all muscle, and had been with the survivors since Suez. “Shouldn’t we be getting shot at by now?”
“Was thinking the same thing,” Brewster said back. He cupped his free hand around his mouth and yelled out, “Hello! Is there anyone there? Hello!”
The three stood silent and unmoving for a full minute, waiting for a response. None was forthcoming. The windows remained buttoned up, and the streets stayed empty.
“Okay,” Denton mumbled, taking a step back. “Maybe this isn’t a good idea.”
“No, wait,” Brewster said. “There’s got to be someone in there.”
“There!” Krueger suddenly shouted, pointing up at one of the unboarded second-story windows of a nearby brick warehouse. A lone figure had stood silhouetted in the glass a moment, but as Denton and Brewster looked up, the figure vanished.
Brewster yelled up at the window, “Hey! Come on! We just want to talk! We’re not infected!”
Whoever it had been showed no sign of responding. The window stayed dark and empty.
“Call the others in,” Denton suggested. “If there’s only a cou
ple people left, looks like we’ve got ourselves a free lunch—maybe there’s a car dealership we can hit on our way through.”
“Right,” Brewster said. “Sign must’ve been a bluff. Looks like most of this town evac’d.”
Brewster turned around and waved his arms over his head, telling the rest of the group it was safe to approach. They broke cover and began jogging the several hundred yard-run to the three at the town entrance.
“What’s the score?” Sherman asked as he jogged up.
“Nada, sir,” Brewster informed him. “There’s someone in that building, but no one else that we can see.”
Mbutu Ngasy, though one of the unarmed members of the group, ambled over to add his thoughts.
“I don’t like this place,” he said. “It’s . . . cold. We should go around.”
“Nonsense,” said Sherman, slapping Mbutu on the shoulder. “We should be able to get whatever we need here. Let’s move in, but let’s keep our guard up. Krueger, Brewster, try to get that civilian to open up. Thomas, tactical column on this street. Keep an eye out for automotive dealerships, convenience stores, any place that might have gear we could use.”
“You got it,” Brewster replied with a nod.
“Yes, sir,” Thomas said. He turned to bark out orders. “Tactical column! Civilians in the center, soldiers on the flanks! Be on the lookout for any useful storefronts!”
“Hoo-ah!” came the automatic reply. The group worked its way around the crude blockade and entered the town proper. Total silence greeted them. Here and there a piece of trash drifted about in the morning breeze and a few wisps of fog still clung to the ground as they moved down the road. Brewster and Krueger ran up to the door of the warehouse where they’d seen the figure earlier and pounded on the door.
“Open up!” Brewster shouted, banging the butt of his pistol against the heavy wooden door.
“We know you’re in there!” Krueger added. “We just want to help!”