Fulton, meanwhile, was doing his best to keep the gang members from the SUV on their twelve o'clock distracted. He had them pinned down behind a row of vehicles at the rear of the People Mover Station, but Hedley could pick up the gang leader's shouts for support.
Hedley raised his SCAR rifle as one of the Kawasakis zoomed toward his position and laid down a line of strafing fire. The Kawasaki turned, its driver hoping to avoid the hail of bullets, but Hedley pressed on. His smile was half-snarl as sparks flung off the bike, and the youth riding it jerked off the seat and hit the pavement. The bike fell with him, pinning his legs, wheels still spinning.
The second Kawasaki rider saw what had happened and pointed his bike toward the Rangers. His automatic pistol ripped into the air around Hedley. Coming in head-on, the Kawasaki presented a thin profile, but it also gave Hedley the opportunity to sight in on his target. He fired a tight three-round burst into the rider's chest, sending the kid tumbling backwards off the bike. The Kawasaki shot forward, the handlebars clipping the side view mirror of a car and was nudged off course. Unbalanced, the bike ran into the trunk of a vehicle beside Hedley, then crashed onto its side.
"On me!" Hedley shouted. Clemson turned toward him, the two running in a half-crouch deeper into the parking lot while Fulton fired, still keeping down a line of covering fire to protect their backs.
It didn't take long for the gangbangers to realize the Kawasakis were done and the Rangers were seeking new cover. Gunfire chased after them, but with Fulton keeping the shooters pinned down, their ammunition was wasted.
As Hedley led the Rangers deeper into the parking lot, pushing forward to the small complex of buildings on the corner of 1st Street, he caught the roar of booming, bass-laden rap music pouring through the cab of an oncoming SUV rocketing toward them.
Clemson opened fire, her rounds turning the windshield into a spider-webbed mess. Shadows shifted quickly behind the window, the car doors springing open. She kept up the fire, even as a third and fourth SUV squealed into the lot's exit off Fort Street and rocketed down the alley from the opening off 1st Street.
Hedley opened fire toward the vehicle approaching from the alley. Safety glass turned into broken crystals, but held their shape, and the front tires of the SUV exploded under the assault. The front passenger door was thrown open, revealing a man who was barely more than a kid with an Uzi. Hedley fired, the kid's head snapping back as the bullet entered beneath his right eye.
The Rangers hit the brick wall of a two-story building occupying the corner of 1st and Fort, securing cover behind the line of cars parked along the wall. The SUVs were blocking off the exit lane onto Fort, as well as the alley leading to 1st. At the opposite end of the alley, Hedley saw the original caravan of gang members breaking cover and moving toward them, using the metal legs of a large billboard for cover.
Fulton and Clemson kept firing, and occasionally a pained yelp or scream filled the sky as they found a target.
Hedley fired into the thick of things as well, but took a moment to assess their surroundings. All that kept them from the main bulk of the attacking force was a single row of cars. Three rows ahead were the original opposing force, now moving toward them. Overhead was a roof with thick curls of barbed wire to keep trespassers away, and two dead security cameras monitoring the rear of the lot. To his right, and slightly above, was a window.
He sent off a small wave of suppressing fire, then rammed the stock of his rifle into the window, shattering it. He cleared away the glass, then hunkered down again to fire off another volley of shots to keep the gang members distracted.
He tapped Clemson on the shoulder, then pointed his thumb over his shoulder to the window behind him. "Through there," he said, shouting to be heard over the gunfire. He covered her as she climbed through, and then repeated what he'd told her to Fulton. After the second man was inside and in position to cover Hedley, Hedley went through the window.
Landing inside a white-walled room filled with cardboard boxes emblazoned with a variety of beer company logos, he crouched low beneath the window and duck-walked to the door across from him. The knob turned easily, opening into a hallway that led to restrooms opposite him, a fire exit at one end, and an open area at the other. The fire exit would take them back out to the alley, and he suspected the open area fronting Fort Street was their better option.
"Romero, this is Wayfinder One Eight Seven. Do you read?"
"I read you, Wayfinder One Eight Seven," Hedley said. Romero was the callsign for Hedley's team, which, given the nature of the infected, and the iconic screen work of zombie movie director George Romero, made him think the brass at least still had some sense of humor, misplaced and ill-conceived as it was.
"Echo One Seven is pinned down and needs support. What is your sitrep?"
"Wayfinder One Eight Seven, we are pinned down by enemy combatants. Our present location is half a mile northwest from Cobo Center, inside Anchor Bar. As soon as we are free to move, we will be en route."
"Roger, Romero. November Two Niner is en route to support."
"Copy."
November was the callsign for the trio of F-22 Raptors circling the city, looking for trouble. They were there, mostly, in case the Rangers failed or became compromised. If, once they returned to the Black Hawk for exfil, there were any signs of trouble, the Raptors would shoot their bird right out of the sky. Hedley was not worried about that at the moment.
"Fulton, drop a flare," he said. He didn't want the Raptor bombing them by accident.
More gunfire chased after Fulton as he dropped back down. Duck-walking, like Hedley and Clemson, he followed after his squad mates. They took up position behind overturned tables, kneeling on the dusty wooden floor of the dive bar, warily keeping an eye out for enemy contacts.
Beyond the glass at the front of the building, Hedley caught signs of movement and readied his rifle. A thin face peeked in through what was left of the glass window, and Hedley gave him a moment to decide his course of action. When the boy — and he clearly was a boy, despite the heat he was packing — stepped more fully into view, on course for the front entrance to the bar, Hedley opened fire. The boy hit the ground, dead.
More gang members ran into view, perhaps thinking a display of overwhelming force would be sufficient to cow the Army Rangers. The wind snagged on their black, baggy clothing as the roar of jet engines pierced the sky. When they looked up, it was to look into the screaming Gatling-style rotary cannon of the M61A2 Vulcan 20mm embedded in the Raptor's right wing. Bodies were shredded as they jerked under the cannon's fire, chips of concrete exploding from the sidewalk.
The fifth generation Lockheed Martin stealth fighter rotated on its axis for a clear line of fire toward the parking lot, the Vulcan chewing up everything in its path. There was a noisy whoosh! as the pilot fired a pair of precision-guided GBU-39 Small Diameter Bombs. The glide bombs were equipped with automatic target recognition and thermal seekers, which made locking onto the hot SUVs an easy task. The arrow-head shaped bombs cut through the air and hit their targets, sending the utility vehicles booming into the air, spinning before they crashed back down.
Tracer fire lit up the darkened interior of Anchor Bar; the men, and Clemson, nearly deafened by the roaring Vulcan. Outside, a handful of gang members had run into the street, shooting up at the Raptor as they fled.
The Rangers were about to open fire on the retreating shooters when the glass of the 455 Building across the street exploded and infected ran onto Fort Street. The creatures made short work of the escaping gang members, tearing them apart without hesitation.
"Oh shit," Fulton said. Hedley followed his line of sight to see a handful of infected leaping off the 455's rooftop.
"November Two Niner, you've got tangos approaching," Hedley said.
"Roger that," November said. The Raptor's thrust vectoring nozzles tilted downward, the jet shooting further upward, but too late.
The creatures crouched, then
sprung up, launching themselves vertically with wildly inhuman force, their arms outstretched. Claws dug into the Raptor's belly, or found handholds in the exposed weapons bay on the bottom of the fuselage. Crawling across the jet's underside, they quickly scrambled over the leading edge flap of the wing and onto the body of the aircraft. The tide of monsters flooded across the Raptor, encircling the cockpit and pounding at the glass separating them from the pilot. The stealth fighter's maneuvering grew more erratic, the pilot either panicked by the presence of infected on his jet, or trying to shake them loose.
More infected streamed onto Fort Street and were greeted by gunfire. Some members of the street gang had apparently ground in to defend their territory, or had been left behind by their partners in crime. The infected swarmed toward the parking lot, heedless of the automatic weapons' fire cutting them down. The creature's frontlines were nothing more than a disposable meat-shield for those in the back.
"Frag out!" Hedley said, throwing a grenade into the center of the street where the mass of infected was thickest. The impact was barely noticeable, so crowded had the street become.
The Raptor twisted in the air, in time for the Rangers to witness three of the infected shatter the canopy, their heads punching through the holes they had made. The F-22 cartwheeled ass over teakettle, one wing clipping the street and shearing away as the jet flipped. The Raptor tore out a streetlight and fire hydrant, water blasting into the air as it twisted and crashed into a parking garage kitty-corner from Anchor Bar.
"Wayfinder One Eight Seven, November Two Niner is down. I repeat, November Two Niner is down. Hostiles are heavy and we need additional support. Do you read?"
"I read you, Romero. We're coming."
"Roger, Wayfinder One Eight Seven. Be advised, this is a real soup sandwich."
Wayfinder One Eight Seven chuckled over the mic, then said, wryly, "Situation normal."
Hedley finished the thought mentally, ...all fucked up. He couldn't help but grin.
Clemson, Fulton, and Hedley worked to thin the crowd of infected, but their weapons' fire had only served to draw the creatures' attention toward them. Pink mist hung in the air as the Rangers took down as many hostiles as they could. Soon, the monsters were at the door. The Rangers continued to fire, felling the monsters even as more arrived. The infected moved fast, darting around one another, or climbing atop those in their way to push through and into the bar. Their dead littered the entranceway, but the infected were an unstoppable force.
The Black Hawk's approach was audible, the autocannons on either side of the chopper ripping apart the line of infected as it flew overhead. Wayfinder One Eight Seven was careful to keep well above the action, lest they end up like November Two Niner.
Realizing there was no way to stem the tide, Hedley ordered his team to fall back. They hurried back toward the hallway they had come from, firing as they went and taking down one infected after another. The monsters chased them down, leaping onto the walls at either side and skittering toward them in a rush. Fulton blasted away at them, while Hedley took aim at the ones crawling overhead, their corpses falling from the walls and ceiling and providing little in the way of a useful barricade.
Clemson shoved the fire exit door open, hustling the two men out and slamming the door shut behind them, pinning the door closed with her body. Her heels dug into the cement, the door knocking into her back as seeking hands pushed through the gap. Fulton fired into the hallway and Clemson shrieked, "Son of a bitch!"
Hedley quickly reconnoitered their immediate surroundings, finding themselves back in the alley, at the opposite end of where they had entered into this nightmare roughly a half hour before. It felt like days had passed. To his right, the SUV he had crippled was stopped at an angle between the bar and Comerica Bank, blocking their escape. To his left was 1st Street, which looked deserted and blessedly free of infected.
Squatting at the rear hatch of the SUV was a thug with a Bluetooth jammed into one ear, the gold chains over his chest covered in blood. This was the man who had executed Barlow. His face was caked in grime, trails of sweat cutting odd paths down his dark skin. Sitting on the ground beside him, near his upturned hand, was the man's automatic pistol. One eye was swollen shut, and the man was bleeding from both ears and nostrils. Hedley suspected it was due more to the concussive blasts of the glider bombs from the Raptor than from the Hemorrhage Virus, although he certainly could not discount the latter. The man's one good eye met Hedley's, and all he saw was cold hate. No regret, no remorse. Only anger. The gang leader's lips tightened into a thin line and he took a deep, chest-swelling breath.
Hedley raised his rifle and shot him point-blank. The man's eye turned into a bloody crater, the back of his head bouncing off the SUV's hatch before he slumped forward, chin on chest.
Behind him, Fulton pulled the pin from a grenade and tossed it into the bar. He helped Clemson jam the metal door shut and yelled, "Fire in the hole!"
An explosive whoompf! rocked the door behind them, knocking the Rangers from their feet. Fire curled out at the edges of the ruined frame, the door hanging off its hinges. Nothing moved behind it.
Shell-shocked and deafened, the Rangers still knew better than to stick around and wait to see what would happen next. They got their feet beneath them, Fulton and Clemson supporting one another as they got their bearings back, and Hedley led them down the alley, out to 1st Street.
"Wayfinder One Eight Seven, we are en route to assist Echo One Seven, over."
CHAPTER TWELVE
"When this is all over," Melissa said, "I want a great big cheeseburger. Some greasy, salty fries. A cold Coke."
One hand rested between her knees, while she held a granola bar, her second, in the other. The wrapper of the first was crumpled up on the cot beside her leg, a half-drunk bottle of water resting on its side against her thigh.
"That sounds so good," the Arab woman, Samar, said. "I would kill for a burger, inshallah." She sat with her legs crossed, her head resting on her husband's shoulder. She had decided to remove her bloodied headscarf, and it lay neatly folded on the floor beside her shoes. The scarf had hidden a thick, lustrous pile of black hair, which now hung around her shoulders. She was an older woman, her natural beauty still apparent even in her fifties, although the only real signs of her age were in the lines around her mouth and the crow's feet at either eye.
"A Jaws burger," Arvin chimed in. The Farmington Hills burger joint was one of his favorites, and he loved spending an evening there chowing down and watching one of the house movies they showed on the plasma TVs hung across the restaurant's walls. Needless to say, the Spielberg shark movie of the same name was always a favorite. "And a milkshake."
"Chocolate or vanilla?" Melissa said.
"Vanilla," Arvin said. "Or mint chocolate chip. God, I'm hungry."
They lapsed into silence, and he felt the mood sour. It was entirely possible the burger joint wasn't even there anymore, or that they'd never have a good, old-fashioned hamburger ever again. He suspected that the days of spending a summer day manning a hot grill, the rich, wonderful odor of charcoal, steaks, and sausages filling his driveway, were over.
Is my house even still there? he wondered.
"What do we do with them?" Samar asked.
Arvin didn't need to follow her gaze to know who she was referring to. Edna still lay where she had died, her body resting in a pool of congealing gore. The stink of D'Andre's innards was a thick, cloying stench, and Arvin was troubled by the fact that he barely noticed it anymore, he'd been breathing it in so long now. And then there were the dogs, as well. At the front of the room was an astringent, putrid circle of death, and the refugees had been careful to keep their distance.
The blood on Arvin, Samar, and Melissa meant that they, too, had been gently exiled. After some of the others had taken charge of handing out granola bars and bottled water, there had been a silent consensus, or perhaps nothing more than a primal instinct, among the
larger group of people to steer clear.
"We leave them," Arvin said.
Samar's mouth formed an O, but she said nothing further. She simply nodded, then looked back down at the cot between her legs. She slowly nibbled at the granola bar, but it was clear there was no enjoyment in the food.
After Melissa finished her granola bar, she crumpled it up with the other wrapper beside her. She and Arvin sat side by side, and she placed her hand on his knee, leaning closer into him. He remembered how badly he had wanted to kiss her upstairs, looking out over the river as they stood alone in the atrium. He found that same desire return. She must have seen something in his eyes or noticed the lilt of their bodies toward one another, and smiled as he bent his head toward hers. Their lips found one another. The kiss was tentative at first, but it quickly grew more passionate and welcoming, and her arms wrapped around his neck, her tongue sliding against his lips and then past them.
Although Arvin was not a man who believed in love at first sight, he had to admit, while holding her close, that it had been one hell of a life-changing day. And, also, that he wasn't willing to let Melissa go. Not for a very, very long time if he could help it.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Cole fired into the darkness ahead of him, having retreated farther back into the shadows of the parking structure. His CBRN was coated in gore, his face shield lined with scratches from the claws of an infected who had gotten too close for comfort. A shallow tear cut across his torso, but he'd been fast enough to prevent the beast's claws from cutting all of the way through the thick material.
"Morris, Alvarez, what's your sitrep?"
"On the rooftop with eyes-on," Morris said.
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