Men and women, his troops, scurried around like cockroaches on the kitchen counter after the light is flicked on. They shouted and screamed, cursed and cried, begged for help and called for their mothers. He surveyed the dead and dying and estimated he’d lost half of his force. And shit, the battle wasn't even twenty minutes old yet.
He glanced at the top of the bluff. Withering fire rained down from up there. Good thing they don't have any weapons or ammunition, Kayla, he thought with a jaundiced smile. And yeah, his people returned fire, but you can't hit what you can't see. The sons of bitches had figured out a way to shoot from back in the trees and still hit their targets. How in the shit was he supposed to defend against that?
On the ridge at the south end of the quarry, somebody popped up like a homicidal Jack in the Box every thirty seconds and launched a grenade into his troops. Magnus tried to get a bead on the bastard twice and shoot him when he rose to fire another grenade, but the son of a bitch never materialized in the same spot twice.
To the north, the infernal bulldozers killed his fighters at a frightening rate. They were a true stroke of genius- a wall of rolling metal with the blades set at the right height to deflect any bullets aimed at the defenders in the cab. A thick plank of wood with a hole cut out of it sat on the top of each blade. Shooters inside stuck gun barrels through the holes and fired away. And they weren't shooting regular old semi-automatics like the assholes on the bluff, either. Magnus didn't know guns (he liked to work up close with a knife or a handgun) but they had some serious fucking firepower. Most of them were deadly fuckers that were incredibly loud and fired about a billion rounds a minute. The thundering clatter from those guns rolled across the pit and echoed off the quarry walls, creating a crescendo of noise that made him feel like his eardrums would bleed. Mixed in with those buzz saws were a couple of big fifty cals or hundred cals or some damn thing. They fired tracer rounds and big long projectiles that chewed up his troops like a sandblaster chews up a soda cracker.
There was a simple defense against the bulldozers if they had come prepared for battle. You get a man with a grenade close enough to toss it into the cab. Viola. Fucking done. But they had no grenades. They didn't have any of the weapons they needed to battle the shit storm arrayed against them.
Kayla marched them into a bloodbath and sure defeat.
A biter that was burned to a crisp spotted him hiding behind his rock and teetered in his direction. The damned thing shouldn't even be on its feet. It's cracked and smoking skin was burned black. Its clothes and hair had incinerated and its facial features had burned, leaving it with just a pair of cloudy eyes. It moved slowly even for a biter, and its motion was jerky and strained. It reminded him of watching the rusty Tin Man trying to move when he watched the Wizard of Oz as a kid.
Bullets whizzed through the air and snapped overhead as the wretched thing approached. Ten feet away, and then seven, and then four. When it was close enough that the tips of its grasping fingers were inches from Magnus's head, he pointed his handgun and shot it twice. The thirty-two punched twin nickel-sized holes in its forehead and it toppled.
Someone on his side managed to establish a skirmish line to battle the bulldozers, of all things. Mexican Joe, one of his lieutenants, screamed, cursed, and beat twelve men until they kneeled in a row behind an empty jeep. Twelve more stood behind those kneeling and they all trained their weapons on the deadly earth movers. Three of the men fell before Joe even gave the order to fire, shot down by tunnel-dwellers on the bluff. He screamed at the fighters to fire and their bullets produced a musical plink as they bounced off the iron. Joe yelled at the men and kicked them in their asses. They raised their aim and Magnus was heartened for a few moments when little pieces of the wooden planks near the gun ports exploded in bursts of chips and splinters.
Magnus’ hopes were dashed when the defenders returned fire. The machine guns roared and the big guns spewed tracers as the Jeep was ripped to shreds of twisted metal. Its windows exploded and its mirrors were shot off; its tires popped and its sheet metal sagged and then fell. A projectile from one of the big guns went through the Jeep, beheaded a man kneeling behind it, and made a dinner plate-sized hole in another man standing behind him. All twenty-four of his troops were dead in less than thirty seconds. Mexican Joe limped about, taking halting steps as he searched for something on the ground. His left arm had been blown off at the shoulder; blood pumped from the wound in a steady rhythm and glistening strips of tissue dangled from his stump. He bent to retrieve something, faltered, and steadied himself. When he rose, he held his left arm in his right hand. He turned to face the bulldozers and walked right into a pair of biters tracking the smell of his bloody flesh. He fell under their weight, struggled briefly, and let out a harsh, desolate cry that was cut off in mid-scream.
To Magnus’ left, ten of his men bunched up behind a boulder much like the one this shielded him. He gaped as they broke from behind their shelter and ran toward the entrance. They zigzagged and altered their speed, trying to make it difficult for a defender to get an accurate shot off. Seven of them made it to the pile of rubble blocking the road. They threw themselves at the debris, pulling themselves up with her arms, their feet scrambling for a purchase.
The black guy who had been firing grenades into the pit appeared on the ridge thirty feet above them. He aimed his tube at the rubble. Smoke belched out the back of the tube and the pile exploded, flinging rocks, chunks of asphalt, and body parts into the air.
Yeah, Kayla led them to their deaths. There was no fixing this mess; his men were dead or would soon die and Kayla was on her own. It was time to find a getaway.
55
* * *
Will and Jiri stood in the breakdown lane on Highway 571, a half-mile north of the quarry. The gargantuan pit loomed in the distance, but the bluffs were too steep to give them a sight line to the combat on the bottom. Instead, they stayed in constant contact by radio with Justin who had the perfect view of the fighting from a veiled platform on the rim of the Eastern bluff.
Will pressed the ‘talk’ button on the talkie. "Say again, Justin?"
The radio clicked then squawked and Justin's tinny voice broke through the static. "I said there's no need for it. This is over. There are 225, maybe 250 of them still on their feet. Some of them are dropping their weapons and raising their hands over their heads."
"Have the guys in the dozers stop firing and tell Terrence no more grenades. Danny needs to tell his men to try not to shoot anybody surrendering. They should concentrate on putting down the creepers."
"Got it. Good plan, guys. Remind me not to get on your bad side. Over."
Jiri eyed Will as he placed the radio in a pouch on his MOLLE vest. "Is that it?"
"All that's left is the cleanup."
The ex-professor toed an ugly weapon to his right. "We didn't even have to use this bad boy."
Will looked at the weapon, an MK19 grenade machine. It was an insectile-looking contraption that killed in mass quantities. Standing four feet high on an elongated tripod, its three-foot-long barrel targeted the quarry bottom. A belt of five-inch fragmentation grenades ran from a box at the weapon's base into its firing chamber. The MK could fire up to thirty 40mm grenades a minute at a distance of up to 2500 yards. It was to be their coup de grâce if need be. As things turned out, the rest of the plan worked so well the MK went unused.
Jiri stripped the firing belt and folded the tripod while Will backed up the truck and opened the liftgate. Together they hefted the weapon into the bed; Jiri slammed the gate shut. The gunfire and explosions from below had slowed from the continuous roar of ten minutes ago to a slow but steady pop-pop-pop.
They got in the truck and Jiri pointed it toward the quarry entrance. He gave Will a speculative look. "You know you’ll have to thank The Doc for this, right?"
Will spit a stream tobacco juice into a Dixie cup. "How's that?"
"The weapons he led us to in Joplin made the
difference. The M249 SAWs and the .250 cal Brownings in the bulldozers mowed those people down. Those guns, plus Terrence launching a steady barrage of grenades, were more than they could handle. It would have been an entirely different battle if we had just been shooting rifles at them."
Will gave a noncommittal grunt. "Sure, it was great to have access to that kind of firepower. I have no problem giving credit where credit is due. But I think the battle plan you and Terrence's created and how you deployed the weaponry made a bigger difference than the weapons themselves. Don't discount your importance to the outcome."
Jiri chuckled. "No one’s ever accused me of that." He guided the Ford down the hill and around the curves with care and parked it next to the rubble pile. "Christ Jesus," he said, frowning at the arms and legs and dismembered organs strewn amid the chunks of limestone and asphalt.
Will sighed. "Yeah, it ain't pretty. And now we get to clean this mess up and deal with the waves of creepers that will show up just as sure as I'm sitting here." He slapped at the steering wheel in frustration. "Damn that woman. This was so unnecessary."
They sat for a moment in silence. The gunfire was now just an occasional bang. He was struck by a sudden urge to take in the action on the quarry floor, but the pile of rocks and dead bodies blocked his view. He pointed at the wall. "Let's go visit the fellas."
They walked the same path Coy took to Terrence’s clearing. The peace officer stood tall and proud, his arms crossed over his chest, surveying the bottom of the pit. He and Justin had taken command during Will and Jiri's jaunt back from the highway.
They took a position on each side of him and surveyed the activity below. The surviving invaders had disarmed and clustered in a group near the middle of the bottom. Danny's team had returned to the rim of the bluff and stood with their rifles pointed at the mob.
Three teams were hard at work. Willa led a group that dealt with the prisoners. One by one she pulled them out of the group, had them searched, zip-tied their hands together and sat them down in rows of ten. A second crew mirrored the one on the rim and held their guns on the captives. Between the two teams of gunmen, it was clear to the prisoners that if any of them got out of line they’d be met with a barrage of bullets. Jobe led the third team; it consisted of twelve people working in pairs and putting down the creepers still wandering through the pit. Over the next few days, that crew would travel deep into each tunnel to ensure no stragglers made their way into the shafts during the firefight.
Will nodded with satisfaction. "Everything looks good." He turned and examined the clearing. "Where's Coy?"
Terrence lifted his shoulders and squished his eyebrows together. "I don't know, man. He said he had something to do and took off in a flash. The last I saw, he was crossing the train tracks to the east."
"I should have beat him regular when he was growing up," Will muttered. He lifted the binoculars and searched the grounds beyond the retaining wall that lined the east side of the quarry, but all they displayed was the usual desolate stretch of gravel and limestone rocks.
"Well now, that's interesting," Jiri said in an arch tone.
Terrence's tone was one of admiration. "Daaammmn!"
Will turned his attention to the pit. Willa was searching a statuesque blonde. He looked through the field glasses. "Yep. That's her."
The decimation of Kayla's army did not affect her haughtiness. She was dirty and disheveled and bleeding from a wound to her bicep. Yet she stood straight and tall with a regal bearing and a pleasant smile.
Will nudged Terrence with his elbow. "Does Willa have a radio?"
"Yes indeed."
Will pulled his from its pouch and spoke into it. "Willa?"
Willa spoke to four members of her team; they hurried over and stood abreast of Kayla. She turned to face the bluff he stood upon and answered. "Yeah, Will?"
"Search her, but don't zip tie her. Take her to tunnel three and wait for Tara and Becky. They'll know what to do with her."
"Yes sir." Willa keyed off her radio and reached for Kayla's arm.
As she did, Kayla looked up at the three men of them, exaggerated mouthing the words ‘thank you’, and waggled her fingers at them. Willa turned her and led her away; Kayla's hips swayed suggestively as they departed.
"Daaammn," Terrence repeated.
Jiri wore a bemused expression. "Wow. That woman is a piece of work. What will the girls do with her?"
"Put her in one of Terrence's cells for now." He blew out a deep breath. "Jiri- will you oversee taking care of the dead? We’ll need all the bodies and body parts in a central location for burning. Check around, find out how many we lost, and make sure everybody that needs to sees the Doc gets over to him. Everybody in the community gets a round of oral antibiotics; I don’t want a little scratch getting infected and leading to an amputation.
“Terrence, put a perimeter up to keep the dead out. We may have to go out and clear the grounds, but that's a decision for tomorrow or the next day. And have Carl and the bulldozer guys move the rubble blocking the road.â€
Jiri stretched and yawned. "What's on your agenda, boss?"
"I'm going to kiss my wife and check on Danny. Then I'm going to make sure the prisoners are tucked away." He rubbed at the stubble on his cheek and called out to them with an afterthought. "Oh, and fellas- keep an eye out for my kid."
56
* * *
The bluffs around the old mine struck Magnus as odd the first time he saw them. He pondered on them for a brief time but then the situation went to shit in a hurry and he had more important things to worry about. But now, huddled behind a boulder with death surrounding him on all sides, he considered them again.
They weren’t uniform, with 300-foot walls on two sides, a third side that started out thirty-feet-high and inclined to 150 feet, and just a short eight-foot cement retaining wall to mark the fourth side. The entrances to eight tunnels scarred the long western bluff and three bored into the narrower north face.
It only took him a few moments to decide on a plan.
He discarded his rifle (won’t be needing that) and checked the magazine on his Ruger .45 semi-automatic. The picture of calmness, he steeled himself, counted to three, took a deep breath, and exploded from behind the boulder. He ran as fast as he could straight toward the retaining wall. A bullet snapped overhead; two more slammed into the concrete as he approached. Never an athlete but always strong and good shape, he took one last stride and launched himself into the air, hoping to get his armpits over the top of the eight-foot-tall barrier.
He missed.
He got his arms over to his elbows. A bullet smashed into the wall close enough to spray chips of concrete into his face. He pulled with his arms and scrabbled with his feet, trying to find a perch in the concrete. Fighting furiously, he got his armpits over the edge, then his chest, and finally his center of balance. He tumbled through the air on the other side and landed on his shoulder; yellow lights flashed before his eyes and a burst of pain ran down his arm. He gasped and cursed, then scrambled until his back was against the concrete. A flat, barren wasteland lay in front of him, nothing but gravel, chunks of limestone, and dust. The landscape rose toward the horizon with no indication of what lay on the other side of the hill.
He wasn’t the first to try the retaining wall- a dozen of his troops lay dead in the gravel. The black-clad corpse the furthest out had made it fifty yards before bullets tore him down. The land beyond the barrier was a deathscape and there was no way across it. But Magnus didn't plan on trying to cross it.
He set his hand down and pulled it back with a start, realizing he’d put it in something warm, wet, and sticky. He examined the ground and saw a pool of fresh blood. As he watched, two drops fell from the back of his leg and added to the pool.
"What the fuck?" he muttered. He felt along the back of his thigh and found a damp spot with a dime-sized hole in the middle. A push on the skin around the hole
caused him to jerk his hand back and gasp in pain.
He chuckled at the implausibility of it. "Only a superior example of manhood like me can get shot and not realize it." He kept a flask in his left pocket. He pulled it out, swallowed a nip of Seagrams VO, and gave the stainless steel container a glum look. "This will be a waste of good whiskey,†he intoned. He laid down on his right side, felt for the hole with his index finger, held his breath, and poured the amber liquid on the wound. The pain made him yelp and let loose a string of curses as he pounded on a large flat rock with the palm of his hand.
Sweat stung his eyes and his thigh throbbed. He sat up and removed his shirt, scrunching it into a wad and placing it over the bullet hole. He pulled the shirtsleeves around his leg and tied them in a knot atop the wad to hold it in place. There, he breathed. That should give the blood a chance to clot, or at least slow the flow. If I figure out who the bastard was that shot me… Black thoughts of revenge and torture tried to take over, but with an effort, he pushed them aside. “No time for that now. Let’s get out of here first.â€
He hugged the concrete and made his way toward the south bluff. His leg throbbed and forced him to limp. He gritted his teeth and tried to block the pain. Guns roared and bullets whined behind him. The occasional tracer round cleared the barrier and screamed into the rocky barrens; once, an errant flaming arrow flew over his head and crashed into a nearby boulder.
He'd gone about fifty feet when a pair of rifles sailed over the top and landed in the gravel fifteen yards to the south. Two of his fighters pulled themselves to the top of the partition and threw themselves over. They landed more gracefully than he had. One settled in a crouch, absorbing the impact and regaining his feet; the other executed a graceful tuck and roll. They retrieved their weapons and sprinted away without so much as a look in his direction. He watched them run and a big part of him wanted to follow. When they'd made it about thirty yards, gunfire peppered the ground behind the man on the left. The explosions of gravel and dust got closer and closer until three bullets slammed into his back. The other runner began to zig and zag. Several shots missed their mark and he thought the man might make it when a shot rang out and the runner’s head exploded like an overripe pumpkin.
Threat Ascendant Page 16