Turning Point (Book 1): A Time To Die

by Wandrey, Mark

“I think so,” Chris said. “What happened?”

  “You were up there, don’t you remember?”

  “It was kinda fast. After we hit, I made sure you weren’t dead and came back here.”

  Andrew nodded. “We lost another engine and went down hard. I did the best I could do.”

  “I hope it was worth it,” Chris said, indicating the carnage around them.

  “The general said there were a lot of people in that house. Dozens.”

  Chris nodded and moved over to Wade. Andrew carefully made his way toward him. Chris looked at him and cocked his head.

  “You okay?”

  Andrew reached up and touched his wound, his fingers coming away with sticky, partially-congealed blood.

  “Yeah, just a cut.”

  Chris nodded and checked Wade. He was alive, but unconscious. As Chris felt for his pulse, the young man began to come around.

  Andrew started to gather equipment, specifically the guns and ammo he racked next to the crew hatch when they hastily boarded. One of the 9mm pistols was in a holster on his hip (along with a two-magazine pouch), and Chris had an M16 over his shoulder, the same one he’d used to shoot the rope gizmo in the hangar.

  “Your gun’s empty,” Andrew said, and gestured at the rifle. “You used the whole magazine.”

  “Not my kind of rifle,” Chris grumbled. “I need a shotgun.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “What the fuck happened?” Wade moaned.

  “We crashed, dipshit,” Chris said as he helped him undo the complicated buckles of the safety harnesses.

  “You suck as a pilot,” Wade grumbled.

  “Blow me,” Andrew snapped. He found the backpack full of ammo and other stuff he’d salvaged from the fire station. He mentally reviewed the final moments of their flight, their altitude during the CAS run on the house, the direction they’d flown, and the length of time they’d stayed in the air before crashing. He calculated the distances based on their speed. It alarmed him that they were no more than ten miles, probably a lot less, from the house.

  “We need to get out of here,” Andrew announced.

  “Shouldn’t we wait until your Army guys rescue us?” Chris asked. They heard a guttural yell, and turned.

  “They won’t be the first to get here,” Andrew said as he grabbed the other M16 from the weapons rack. He checked the magazine and verified the safety was on. “Come on, let’s roll.”

  “We just fucking crashed,” Wade whined as Chris stood.

  Andrew released the passenger door and pushed. It barely moved.

  “Help me with this,” he yelled at Chris.

  “Can’t we climb out through the back?” Chris asked. He joined Andrew at the door and pushed. The door groaned and opened a few inches. From the back of the plane, they heard thrashing and grunts, and the wet, meaty sounds of tearing flesh.

  “What is tha—” Wade started to ask, an instant before a blood-curdling scream rent the darkness.

  “They weren’t all dead back there,” Chris gasped. In the red lights of the gunner’s section, his face portrayed horror.

  “It’s more likely some of the hungry types found us.” Andrew shouldered the door with all his might.

  “We’re going to die in here,” Wade moaned. Through the debris in the back, the first of the crazies observed them with eyes full of madness and hunger. They began to crawl through the razor-sharp fragments of cables and ripped aluminum, oblivious to how it shredded their hands and arms.

  “Not if we can get this fucking door open!” Andrew snarled. “Now, get your ass over here and help!”

  Wade stumbled over and threw his weight against the door. It was enough. The combined effort caused something to snap, and the door fell outward, breaking one of its hinges and leaving it hanging at an extreme angle.

  Andrew nearly fell face first. He caught himself, dropping to the hardscrabble in a crouch. He struggled to get his rifle off the sling as the other two men dropped down next to him. Chris had the other M16. Wade looked terrified.

  “What the fuck do we do?!” Wade jabbered. “We need to help the others!”

  “Which way is north?” Chris asked, ignoring Wade.

  “We were going north when we crashed,” Andrew said. He gestured with his rifle, past the front of the crashed plane.

  “Hey!” Wade yelled. “What about the others?”

  “They’re dead,” Andrew said.

  “We have to help them!” the gamer insisted.

  Andrew stopped, listened to the rending, grunting, and animalistic sounds coming from the rear of the wreck, and shook his head.

  “We HAVE to,” Wade moaned.

  “Fine,” Andrew said. He slung his rifle and slid his pack around. He pulled out a Beretta 92F. Pulling back the slide, he checked that there was a round in the chamber, then set the safety. Wade watched. Andrew held out the gun. “Take it,” he snarled, and Wade did. Andrew pointed at the safety. “Flip that off and pull the trigger.”

  “What, you want me…”

  “Good luck,” Andrew said. He took the other handgun, performed the same safety check, and handed it to Chris. The man expertly double-checked the gun’s condition and slipped it into his waistband.

  “Let’s get the fuck out of here,” he said.

  “You can’t leave me here,” Wade complained.

  “We’re not dying with you,” Andrew said. “It’s that simple.”

  Chris looked at Andrew and Wade, then nodded and followed the pilot. Wade stood for a moment, looking at the gun in his hand like it was an alien lifeform. Chris and Andrew were disappearing in the darkness. Wade turned and looked at the rear of the wreck. The growling and tearing sounds were decreasing. He could hear movement through the brush and feet shuffling in the hard-baked scrabble. He turned and ran to catch up to the others.

  * * *

  Vance ran, an FN assault rifle gripped against his chest, and his tactical vest thrown over his jacket. It’d cost him thousands of dollars and countless hours of manpower to prepare and make custom modifications to his house; the only thing he’d never found the time for was exercise.

  His friend Tim was a few steps behind, an identical FN assault rifle held in both hands. Back at the retreat, their wives rushed to lock down the house, closing shutters, crating dogs, and preparing weapons. Belinda was beside herself with worry since her husband was outside when they heard the shot.

  Vance considered the possibilities. After spending a day finishing the new observation post in the dry streambed, Harry volunteered to stand watch on the ridge while the other men went in, ate, and washed up. Although he was new to the group, he was a Marine, so Vance didn’t consider it a risk. The man had his shit together. It wasn’t until Vance heard the shot that he realized he hadn’t given Harry a field radio. They’d tried for a few panicked seconds to reach him on one of the observation post’s phones, but they didn’t get a response, so Vance and Tim grabbed guns and gear, and ran out the door.

  “It’s fucking dark out here,” Tim huffed behind him.

  “Won’t help if we break an ankle trying to find him,” Vance agreed. “Shot came from the east, can’t be far.”

  “BOOM, BOOM!” Two more shots rang out.

  Tim let out a stream of expletives as both men dove to the sandy ground, carefully holding their rifles to avoid getting dirt in them.

  “Who’s there?” Harry called out. “Identify yourself!”

  “It’s Tim and Vance,” Tim called back, knowing Harry would recognized his voice. “Coming in!”

  “Clear,” Harry replied. “Checking fire!”

  Tim and Vance got up and ran toward the sound of Harry’s voice. They found him about 100 meters from the ridge observation post. He was lying behind a boulder with his custom SIG Sauer SSG3000 in his hand. Tim and Vance dropped down next to him.

  “What do you have?” Vance asked, trying to catch his breath.

  “People,” Harry said.

 
“What? You just shot people? Why?”

  “They’re not ordinary people,” Harry insisted, changing out the five-round box magazine on his rifle. It was a hideously-accurate rifle, especially with the 12-power scope Harry had attached.

  “Why?” Tim asked.

  “Look,” Harry said, and handed him his NVG monocle. Vance took the night vision scope and looked through it. He could see a half-dozen people standing 100 meters away, and three on the ground. Those on the ground weren’t moving; they all had wet stains on their torsos.

  “I just see people,” Vance said, beginning to get mad and scared. Harry had just murdered three people on his property. None of them appeared armed. In fact, they were all wearing street clothes. Christ, one was a woman, and one of the six who remained standing looked like a kid!

  “Just fucking watch them,” Harry growled.

  Vance sighed, but put the monocle back up to his eye. They were standing there, perfectly still. All six looked down at one of the dead people, then in unison they all looked right at Vance.

  “Fuck,” Vance said, louder than he intended. As one, all six started running toward him. “Here they come!”

  “I told you,” Harry snapped. “Firing!”

  Vance had just enough warning to slide behind the muzzle of the SSG3000 before Harry fired. Through the monocle, he clearly saw a .308 round hit one of the men high on his left shoulder. The impact threw off his stride, almost sending him to the ground. A visible cone of meat and blood exploded from the man’s back. He regained his balance and kept coming.

  “He’s not stopping!” Vance cried out.

  “Did Harry miss?” Tim asked.

  “No, it was a clean shoulder hit.” Vance watched the wounded man’s arm flopping around. “God, the hit fucked up his whole arm, and the guy isn’t slowing!”

  “I told you,” Harry said, expertly working the bolt with his left hand, reaching over the scope to do it. He kept his right hand on the pistol grip/trigger assembly, eye never leaving the scope. In less than two seconds, he settled back on target. “Firing,” the ex-Marine said calmly. The SIG boomed again, and Vance watched the wounded man’s neck bloom like a flower. The man fell, landing face first in the dirt and gravel.

  “He’s down,” Vance confirmed as Harry worked the bolt. “Fifty yards.”

  “I can’t get them all before they’re on us,” Harry warned as he picked a new target. “I got the center two.”

  “Right,” Vance said. In a second he’d unshipped the bipod on his FN FAL battle rifle and settled it next to Harry. Tim moved to the other side of the boulder and did the same.

  “What’s happening?” Ann asked through his radio’s earpiece. Vance took a split second to flip the radio to VOX. “We heard more shots!”

  “We’ve got zombies on the property,” he said, feeling far calmer than he expected. “Remain locked down. Wait for an update. Tim, I got the left.”

  “Confirmed, I’m on the right,” he replied.

  As luck would have it, when Vance flipped up the covers on his Leupold scope and picked the far left of the five, it was a woman. At the right edge of his scope’s view, he could see two more figures sprinting toward them. Harry’s rifle boomed, and one of them staggered, a hole appearing in its left chest. Harry worked the bolt.

  Vance settled his crosshairs on the woman’s sternum, right between her breasts, picking up the rhythm of her running movements. It’s a woman, a voice said in his head. She was no more than 40 yards away. It’s a woman, Vance.

  A man walked out of a building, a baby in his hands. He leaned forward as if to kiss it, teeth red and tearing…

  Vance shuddered uncontrollably for a moment, then calmed, all emotions gone. It was just him and the rifle, a rifle he’d fired thousands of times.

  He corrected his aim upward, slightly. Even in the darkness, the moon gave off enough light for him to see her face. She might have been a Latin beauty, once, but now, blood smeared her face. Her mouth was open and snarling. He could see a roughly broken-off tooth, and there were bits of flesh between her teeth. Harry fired and the straggler fell. He loaded the last round in the mag.

  “Vance,” Tim said, from the other side of the boulder. Vance heard the same doubts and fears he was having in Tim’s voice. A lifetime of civilization weighed on them, their parents teaching them not to hurt others and that taking a life was the greatest of all decisions. He’d carried a firearm for over 20 years, and he had never pulled the trigger in self-defense. But those teeth would soon be tearing into his flesh, his girlfriend’s flesh, and his unborn baby’s flesh.

  “Thirty yards,” Harry warned as he fired the last round from his SIG.

  “Do it,” Vance said as he lowered his sights and squeezed the trigger.

  All three of them were firing .308 Winchester rounds, also called 7.62x45 by the U.S. military and other NATO countries. With over 2,800 foot-pounds of muzzle energy, the round struck her low, just above her belly button, mushroomed inside her abdominal cavity, and blew a chuck of flesh seven inches across out of her back. The hydrostatic shock partially exploded her belly, throwing intestines out both sides. She didn’t miss a step.

  Vance’s and Tim’s weapons had two big advantages over Harry’s—they were semi-automatic and had 20-round magazines. Vance didn’t have to work a bolt; the gun instantly cycled a fresh round into the chamber and was ready to fire again. As soon as the sight settled, Vance adjusted and fired again.

  The second round hit her just above her left breast. Blood fountained from the wound, and she fell. Vance aimed at the man to her left and fired three times in quick succession, stitching him from hip to neck. Tim fired his first round just as Vance fired his last.

  Vance started to shift his aim to the far right to help Tim, and realized the last man was no more than 10 yards away. The target filled his field of view so completely, Vance didn’t know what he was looking at. He gasped and began to switch from the scope to the iron sights underneath, when a big-bore handgun shot twice; the man was blown backward off his feet and crashed in the dirt.

  Vance looked over and saw Harry on one knee, a Ruger Super Redhawk .44 magnum held in a two-handed Weaver stance. He was panning the weapon back and forth, searching for targets.

  “C-clear,” Tim stammered. He was looking through his scope at the man he’d shot. “Jesus Christ forgive me.”

  “Clear,” Harry agreed, standing. He holstered the huge revolver and snatched up his SIG, swapping out magazines.

  “Clear,” Vance said, standing with the FN FAL, but leaving his magazine in. He had only used five of his 20 rounds.

  “We just killed five people,” Tim said, his voice shaking, bordering on hysteria.

  “They’re not going to be the last,” Harry said. “Listen.” The men had to strain as their ears were still ringing from the gunfire, but they heard grunts and snarls coming toward them.

  “How far are we from Mexico?” Harry wondered.

  “Apparently too damned close,” Vance said. “We’d better get back to the retreat, quickly.” He flipped the radio from VOX to transmit. “Ann!”

  “Oh, Vance, thank God!”

  “We’re on the way back. We have hostiles inside the fence.”

  “Is Harry okay?” he heard Belinda yell in the background.

  “We’re all fine. Finish locking down; we’ve got lots of unwanted guests.” The men started running toward the distant house. When they were 500 yards away, the house’s floodlights suddenly went out. “Don’t kill the lights yet!” Vance yelled into the radio.

  “We didn’t,” Ann replied. “The power just went out.”

  * * *

  As night fell across the United States, most Americans were still unaware how far the infection had spread. The supply chain for fresh food was relatively short, from weeks for vegetables, to less than a week for fresh fruit, to days for most meats. There were instances of “abnormal cattle behavior” in slaughterhouses across Texas, Arizona, and Kansas. There
were bites. A couple of them shut down, but most still shipped.

  Across the nation, restaurants served millions of hamburgers as meat from suspect animals flowed into the nation’s food supply like poison from a snake bite. Due to their distance from the initial outbreak, routinely delivered meat shipments to places like Bismarck, North Dakota, and Sault Ste. Marie, Michigan, had yet to arrive. But as the high-end steakhouses advertised, they had “the best steaks flown in daily.” Hundreds of guests went home with smiles, only to walk out their doors later, hungry for their neighbor’s flesh.

  For most Americans, the evening of April 23rd was the last normal day of their lives. The Internet kill switch slowed the release of vital information, including instructions for how to avoid contracting Strain Delta. Most people no longer had regular broadcast television; they got their news from the Web. When the federal government pulled the plug, 75 percent of all news and information stopped.

  Into the late evening hours, the military continued deploying its units, although the national command structure was in complete disarray. Units had widely different, and often conflicting, orders. Some received orders to isolate cities to avoid contamination, while others received orders to facilitate civilian evacuation to yet-to-be-specified safe zones. Outside of Denver, a mechanized battalion tasked with isolating the city came face-to-face with an infantry battalion ordered to evacuate the city.

  As morning dawned, and people got in their cars to go to work, radio stations were either silent or carried news about viral outbreaks in big cities. A few talked about rumors of terrorists detonating a nuclear device in Mexico. That wasn’t the strangest rumor, though. An amateur astronomer claimed to have watched a space ship, launched by Jeremiah Osborne’s Oceanic Orbital Enterprises, achieve orbit at incredible momentum. Once there, this person claimed, the ship appeared to accelerate to impossible speeds before disappearing.

  In the predawn hours, those government agencies able to coordinate a meeting of their high-level leadership did so. They held a multi-agency video conference on the military network. Although it was spotty, with a poor frame rate, representatives of most of the cabinet-level departments were present as well as many of the sub-agencies.