Omega Days (Book 4): Crossbones

by John L. Campbell

  The shaking and monstrous rumble of tortured stone continued, frightening on a level that pierced Evan through some primitive core, and he screamed back at it. The quake was still trying to shake him loose, and his arms and legs were ready to give out. When the next wave washed over him, he swallowed seawater.

  The water dipped back, and Evan vomited, coughing and gasping. Can’t stay like this. Ignoring the pain in his fractured wrist, he forced himself to crawl up the side of the shaking tower. It took two cycles of waves to complete the move, and each time he held a deep breath and squeezed his eyes tightly shut, hanging on. At last he was on the top of the tower—at least it was the side facing up—and although the waves still crashed against him, they didn’t cover him, only washed around his body. He was able to breathe. The survival vest, now inflated and even bulkier, threatened to pull him off with the water when the waves struck, however. He still had to hang on to the steel to keep it from floating him off his perch. Evan reached for the snaps to cut it loose, when Vladimir’s voice barked at him.

  “You will never take it off.”

  Right, not until my boots are back on the deck of the carrier. If it’s not already at the bottom of the bay. That thought brought an image of Maya holding her belly with both hands, and Evan wanted to scream. Instead he forced himself to crawl down the radio tower to where its base was jammed into a split in the rock. Surf still rising and falling around him, the earth still vibrating the tower and dropping bits of stone from the cliff above, Evan carefully reversed until his back was to the rock, planting his boots against a steel strut and gripping another with his good hand.

  A wave rose against him, then retreated. He had a solid hold.

  Evan felt the shaking stop, and at once the tortured sounds of cracking rock quieted. The sea remained, crashing against the high cliff that stood roughly where downtown Richmond had been, but at least for now, the earthquake was over.

  Unbroken water stretched before him in the moonlight. He saw no land masses, nothing protruding from the surface, and only unrecognizable debris riding the high swells. By his last calculations, he should’ve been able to look west to see the hilly fingers of land where both Tiburon and San Quentin poked into the bay, but there was nothing. If anything remained of the rest of Marin County, it was either hidden behind the darkness or beneath the Pacific.

  Before him now was an alien sea, and he was afraid of it. Looking around revealed only cliff face to his left and right, more cliff face above, none of it climbable. Even if it was, and he managed to pull himself a hundred feet up its sheer face and over the top—using only one hand—what new devastation would be waiting?

  His personal locator beacon, the yellow cell-phone-sized device he’d activated and stuck in a pocket, was gone. So was the Sig Sauer handgun, jarred from its holster by one impact or another. And now he realized he’d dropped his survival knife when the concrete house came apart and the water took him. The two cylindrical flare grenades were still clipped to his vest, but they’d spent a lot of time in the water, and Evan wondered if they would even work.

  Let’s find out. The flashing strobe on his vest gave off some light, but it was also killing his night vision to the point that in between the flashes he was completely blind. He clenched the flare between his knees and pulled the pin, letting the spoon fly. There was a pink sputter, then nothing.

  Shit.

  Another pink spark, a stutter, and then the top of the cylinder erupted with a fluorescent pink light too bright to look at. It heated up fast, he discovered, so he plucked it from between his knees and wedged it into a crack in the rock wall.

  No one will see it. No one is left to see it. It’s there to make me feel better. For a moment, it did. Then he looked down the forty feet of mangled radio tower stretching out just above the surf. In the shimmering pink of the flare he saw that a wave had washed something else up onto his perch.

  It was dead.

  And it was crawling toward him.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Nimitz

  The wave threw Rosa off the top rack and into the frigid water. Tilting like a funhouse room, the small berthing compartment slammed her against a fold-down desk and she went under. Her injured foot banged against something and she let out a scream that came out as a burst of bubbles. Then the room tilted in the other direction as the carrier was swept up by another wave.

  Rosa reached frantically, caught hold of a pipe, and pulled herself out of the water, gasping and bracing against the roll of the ship. Her warm, dry clothes were now soaked, and the medic shivered in the darkness, fighting to clear her head. Was the ship going down? No, but it was caught in phenomenal waves, enough to toss around a carrier. How was that possible in the San Francisco Bay?

  The medical backpack washed against her legs as the room leaned and the water—at her knees—sloshed to the other side of the room. She grabbed the pack and pulled it on. It was heavy, the contents saturated.

  Flashlight. She pawed at the water, found the sneaker torn apart by the bullet, and threw it aside. Below the surface, her bandage was soggy and unraveling. It’s a Maglite, it won’t float. She waited a moment until the room tipped left, then took a breath and went under, hands probing into the only place it could go: under the lower rack. Her fingers quickly closed on the flashlight’s long metal barrel, and she popped out of the water, shaking her head as the compartment tipped to the right.

  Please work, please work. . . .

  A cool white beam lit the compartment and Rosa sighed in relief. Bedding and personal items floated on the surface around her as she timed the tipping, took another breath and submerged. This time she came up with her Glock.

  Rosa didn’t know how long she’d slept, couldn’t guess what was happening to the ship. Michael was still out there, though, so her mission was unchanged. He would be terrified, maybe even crying out. That might help her find him, but it would help other things too. She tried not to think about that.

  Gripping the Maglite and pistol, Rosa threw the privacy bolt and hauled the hatch open, letting in a surge of water. It was thigh-deep now, and so very cold. She went out, keeping a wide stance and anticipating the severe roll now, staying on her feet. The passageway was clear of the dead for the moment, her light revealing a flooding, sloshing corridor stretching far to the right and left. Which way?

  Then she did hear a scream.

  It wasn’t human.

  • • •

  It couldn’t remember being Michael, had no concept of a mother who’d loved him, a father who fretted about his childhood diabetes, of a life before or after the plague. That was gone. Dead. No longer Michael. So much more, now.

  The newly born Hobgoblin stood in the darkness of the gear handling compartment, legs in a wide stance as the floor tilted back and forth. It needed no light, for its eyes viewed the world in variant shades of red, gray, and black, even in absolute blackness. The creature looked at its hands, its body, and the smooth crimson flesh pulled taut over new muscle. It still tingled all over, and the electrical activity firing in its brain—sensed as flickers of red light behind its eyes—had subsided but not entirely dissipated.

  It felt no pain, no cold. There was hunger, a burning sensation that must be sated, but there was another, even more powerful drive. The Hobgoblin wanted to kill, to rend flesh with its hands and teeth, to cause pain . . . and fear. It wanted to hear screams, and these combined desires were so powerful that the creature trembled.

  Across the room, a dead woman struggled to stand near an equipment locker, the motion of the room repeatedly throwing her back into the water before she climbed once more to her feet. The Hobgoblin instinctively knew it was neither threat nor of any consequence, it just was. Something to be quickly dismissed.

  More sensations came at the creature, images of violence and new perceptions. Without the words or need to describe them, the young Hobgoblin knew the importance of speed and stealth, understood it was strong, what its hands could do, how they wo
uld do it . . . ripping, crushing, tearing. . . . It suddenly understood prey, and its flesh tingled at the image, red pulses going off in rapid fire within its brain. It pictured prey in many forms and in seconds realized that this was what would satiate its hunger for fear and violence. Prey. Stalking. Killing.

  The ten-year-old’s new, mutated incarnation shuddered at the prospect, and it threw back its head, emitting a piercing, inhuman shriek of lust.

  Then it caught a scent, nostrils flaring, and its eyes narrowed as lips pulled back from its teeth. Prey.

  The Hobgoblin started moving.

  • • •

  The scream froze Rosa in place and made her skin crawl with a chill that had nothing to do with the freezing water. There was madness in that scream, a sound no human could make, and it terrified her, tapping something feral in her primordial brain.

  When she was fourteen, Rosa spent a week at a Wisconsin lake with a girlfriend and her parents. One night she’d been awakened by the most diabolical yowling and shrieking right outside the cabin, and both she and her girlfriend had run screaming to the girl’s parents. In the morning, the girl’s father told them it had been raccoons, either fighting or mating. Rosa decided right then that if a demon rose from hell, that was how it would sound.

  Until now.

  It came a second time, echoing through dark steel tunnels, and Rosa couldn’t tell if it was coming from the left or right, or how far away. It’s close. And the dead don’t make that sort of noise. Nothing does.

  Swinging the flashlight in both directions, she expected to see some demonic horror waiting to pounce, but the passageway remained empty. Rosa knew she’d come from the left, so she waded right, staggering from bulkhead to bulkhead as the ship rode whatever unimaginable sea event it was now experiencing. She couldn’t picture the waves required to make this behemoth move like this, tried to envision the storm (it had to be a storm, right?) that was assaulting the ship. Her worst images of hurricanes didn’t seem sufficient.

  Yet Rosa knew she would gladly endure whatever howling tempest awaited on the flight deck if it meant escaping these black corridors of the dead. The dead and . . . something else.

  A heavy sloshing came from up ahead, and she jabbed the flashlight beam forward. Flung through an open hatch by the ship’s movement, a pale and pasty thing in khakis had collided with the left bulkhead only ten feet away. Its milky eyes found her, and it groaned.

  Rosa shot it in the face, and it collapsed. Five rounds left.

  The gunshot still ringing in her ears, Rosa heard the inhuman scream come again, definitely behind her now . . . she thought.

  And it was very near.

  • • •

  A primitive instinct caused the Hobgoblin to screech in rage and delight at the echo of the single gunshot. It was newborn and had yet to learn restraint. But its body tensed as its new brain said that this was something that could hurt it, and instinctually understood caution, the ways of stalking, and then gave the creature a strong sense of direction and distance to the shot. The Hobgoblin moved that way, down a narrow passage, the flooding waist-deep on a creature that occupied the frame of what had been a ten-year-old boy. Then it began angling, no longer heading straight in the direction of the sound.

  Wet clothing and clumsy shoes were irritating, and the creature tore off the shirt and pants, ripped at undergarments and clawed at sneakers until they came away. Then it was bare, hands smoothing across its crimson skin, feeling the powerful muscles underneath, touching the fatal wounds on its body, the ragged edges already toughening like leather. Better.

  It must be fast. It must be quiet. It knew these things, but it also felt the hunger, the need to rip and bite, feel hot blood on its skin. That particular image was maddening. It must have control. Be quick. Be clever. Resist the urges.

  But above all, it had to kill.

  • • •

  Rosa didn’t know this part of the ship at all. After the initial attack, her time had been spent mostly between the mess and common areas on Second Deck and the medical spaces on the 03 Gallery Deck. In those areas, it seemed there were ladderways at every turn, numerous opportunities to climb to higher decks. It was not so down here, and she was disoriented as well. Was she heading forward or aft? On the starboard side or to port? She thought she was on Third Deck but could be as deep as Fourth Deck. Could she be all the way down on the Engine Room level?

  She noticed that the ship’s violent pitching had slowed to a more predictable roll. The seas must have calmed.

  There was very little stenciling on walls or hatches down here, only an occasional incomprehensible abbreviation or string of numbers and letters. Rosa supposed that crewmen assigned to these areas quickly figured out where they were and how to get around, and anyone who didn’t had no business being down here.

  She pressed on, reaching a point where she could continue down the passage or take a new corridor that branched to the right.

  I’m going in circles.

  Moaning came from the darkness ahead, and her flashlight revealed several crooked silhouettes at the edge of her light, moving toward her through the water. Too far to risk wasting a bullet, and she couldn’t bear hearing that ghastly screech again when the thing heard her fire. Rosa moved right, passing several unmarked hatches, finding no ladderways.

  The medic realized she was looking for a way up and out of this place. Did that mean she was giving up on Michael? She wanted to deny it, but she was scared, and she wanted out. The guilt of leaving him behind warred with her fear, and she wanted to cry. How could she abandon a child like that? How could she stay down here another minute?

  Rosa knew what kind of person would leave a ten-year-old boy to his fate in a place like this, and the fact that Michael had sacrificed himself so that Wind and Denny could escape made her feel smaller still. She was weak, a fraud who claimed she wanted only to help people, but then ran when she was needed most. Michael would now join the ranks of the others she’d betrayed with her cowardice; her partner Jimmy, her mom, anyone she’d hurt because she was only pretending to be a doctor. This realization was like acid in her mouth, yet not powerful enough to turn her back. She kept looking for a way out.

  The passageway ended at a single hatch marked ACCESS-JP5 BKR 01-PRESCONT. The hatch was closed, and someone had jammed a long steel pry bar between the handle and the door.

  “No,” she whispered, resting a palm on the hatch. It was damp and cold. There were no openings to the right or left, only the way back, and moaning and splashing was coming from there. No, I can’t face them. No more. She was freezing and tired, her foot was sending arrows of pain up her leg, and all she wanted to do was sit down, let the water and the cold take her someplace quiet and safe. It would be so easy. . . .

  Figures appeared at the back of the hallway, dead faces with black eyes. Two, half a dozen, more pressing in from behind.

  “No!” she shouted, firing the pistol, the muzzle flash blinding as the bullet blew off a jaw. She shoved the weapon into its holster and jerked the pry bar free with a squeal of metal. Without caring what was on the other side she was through the hatch, water pouring over the knee knocker, and then she was shoving it closed. Rosa nearly dropped her flashlight as she jammed the pry bar home against the handle on this side, just as something began beating at the steel.

  The medic drew the pistol and panned the Maglite around, ready to fire one of her four remaining bullets. It was a high, echoing room, perhaps two decks high. She realized she was standing on a metal catwalk that encircled the compartment, and the space beyond the railing dropped yet another deck; the place was a tube, and the water from beyond the hatch had simply spilled through the gridwork. This place was dry, free of the flooding.

  The center of the chamber was filled with a forest of vertical purple pipes of many different sizes. Valve wheels and gauges bristled from the pipes as they rose in cornfield rows through the high room, and there was a sharp odor in the air that made her nostrils bur
n. She suddenly understood the meaning behind the hatch’s cryptic message; this was a pressure control room for the JP-5 jet fuel stored in bunker number zero-one.

  Her eyes watered. Was it leaking? No, she’d encountered a genuine leak before, and this didn’t compare. And if it was leaking, then the fumes would take her out soon enough and none of this shit would even matter anymore.

  Rosa moved right, following a curving steel wall, passing tool lockers and boards displaying piping schematics, the wet bandage trailing behind her. She’d traveled perhaps a quarter of the circle when her light picked out a ladder bolted to the curving wall. Panning up, she saw that it rose to a small metal platform with a hatch set in the wall behind it.

  Freedom.

  Then she stopped. Why had this room been barred from the outside? Ahead and behind was only empty catwalk. She stepped to the railing that overlooked the pipe-filled center and pointed her light downward.

  Fifty dead faces peered back up at her, and the groaning rose like a hellish choir. Through the pipes she could see a metal stairway that curved from this catwalk down into that space. The dead turned as one and began crowding up the stairs.

  Rosa started for the ladder, then stopped when she heard a hatch creak open beyond the forest of pipes. The footsteps that stepped through the hatch and moved along the catwalk were slow but didn’t drag or stumble. Cautious movement? She put her light in that direction.

  “Michael?” she whispered, hoping.

  It was.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Stone opened his eyes. He was almost certain he’d stopped throwing up—there couldn’t possibly be anything left inside him—and along with his stomach, the world had stopped heaving, trying to spin him away into the cataclysm. His hands were raw from where he’d been gripping the nylon rope, his body entangled in the safety netting just off the port side of the carrier’s flight deck. The boy’s eyes burned from salt water, and he was shivering.