Turning Point (Book 1): A Time To Die

by Wandrey, Mark

  “I’d rather pick my own way out,” Chris said and gripped his gun.

  “What’s that sound?” Wade asked.

  “What sound?” Andrew asked. All he heard was thousands of crazed, flesh-eating people growling, yelling, and snapping their jaws.

  “That thumping,” Wade said.

  “I hear something, too,” Chris said and began to look around. “It’s a thumping, just like Wade said.”

  “Thumping?” Andrew asked, searching with the others. Their situation was deteriorating. They’d have close and intimate company in a matter of moments.

  “There!” Wade said. He clambered to his feet and pointed.

  Andrew looked and saw salvation. “Helicopter!” he yelled. It was a couple of miles out, but looked like it was coming right at them. “It’s coming here,” he said.

  “We’re not going to live long enough to be rescued, if we don’t stop these creatures,” Chris pointed out.

  “Start shooting!” Andrew barked.

  Both men picked their targets. Andrew fired at the ones trying to untangle themselves from the bridge. He spent six rounds killing or disabling the four on the bridge. He heard Chris’s gun as he engaged targets from the direction they’d come.

  Andrew turned to Wade. “You have to help us.”

  “I ain’t no soldier,” Wade complained.

  “Neither am I,” Chris said, between shots. Wade looked more frightened than ever.

  “We need you to hold this stairway,” Andrew said, gesturing toward the stairs where he’d just shot the woman.

  “What am I supposed to do?”

  “Shoot anyone who comes up it,” Andrew explained.

  With a shaking hand, Wade drew the pistol from his belt and looked at it. Andrew reached over and flipped the safety off for him.

  “Line up the sights and pull the trigger,” Andrew told him. “It’s a long pull the first time. After that, a short pull. It will kick, so hold it with both hands.” He demonstrated with his own gun. “Live or die, you decide.”

  Andrew slipped off his pack as Chris warned he was out of ammo. He handed Chris two of the four extra magazines, and put the other two in his belt. He didn’t bother shouldering the pack again. This was it. If that helicopter wasn’t coming to rescue them, they would die in a few minutes. He looked up and saw that Wade had walked most of the way to the top of the tank’s stairs. Wade held the gun in both hands, arms extended. He was visibly shaking, and Andrew prayed the infected wouldn’t rush the tank from that direction.

  Then there was no more time for worrying. Two of the creatures climbed over the bodies blocking the bridge. He raised his weapon into a Weaver stance and fired twice, before his gun came up empty.

  So it went, for what seemed an eternity. Andrew picked his targets carefully, making a conscious decision to spend each round, instead of jerking the trigger in response to a threat. His magazine ran empty again, and he mechanically reloaded for the last time.

  He shot seven times. His mind was acutely aware of how many bullets remained, in a way that he’d never been aware of anything else in his life. Ten, eleven… A deafening roar made him look up as an Army UH60 Blackhawk pounded overhead no more than 50 feet up. Powerful searchlights blinded him as they passed over, moving back and forth to assess the situation.

  The pilot banked in an aggressive turn, and the rotor wash hit Andrew like a flyswatter, nearly blowing him off his feet. The door gunner unleashed a long, sustained burst of 7.62mm machine gun fire. The dozen creatures that were scrambling across the catwalk were torn into bloody rags. Rounds whanged against the top of the tank, throwing wild sparks into the near darkness.

  The metal catwalk separated with an ear-splitting, grinding sound and careened toward the ground. The helicopter hovered, and the opposite-side door gunner opened up on the other catwalk, the one Chris was watching. It shattered and split in two; both halves fell away and crashed against the sides of the tanks with incredible booming reports.

  The helicopter effected an almost leisurely 360° turn, its M240s roaring intermittently, and it descended until its insect-like landing gear was only inches off the tank top. Andrew ran over, and a Lieutenant Colonel in a new uniform, safety harness hooked to a mounting point, leaned out.

  “Lieutenant Colonel Cobb Pendleton,” the soldier yelled. “Get your people aboard, Lieutenant!”

  “Yes, sir!” Andrew barked. Two soldiers jumped down from either side. The helicopter rocked only slightly from the sudden weight change, and Andrew admired the pilot’s skills. The soldiers carried tricked out M4 carbines and wore full battle rattle over their well-worn cammies. They knelt and began scanning in all directions through their advanced ACOG holographic sights.

  Andrew looked through the open double doors of the Blackhawk, its deck about a foot below his eye level, and saw a pair of soldiers grunting as they boosted Wade up and into the helicopter, with tears of relief running down his face. The gunner moved from his station to help from the inside. Andrew did a double take as a female civilian in jeans, a t-shirt, and a light fatigue jacket moved to take the gun. She changed aim and let out a couple of bursts as an infected reached the roof and moved toward them.

  Andrew turned and yelled to Chris.

  “Come on, let’s go!”

  Chris half-jogged and half-stumbled to the helicopter. The M9 pistol in his hand was locked open, empty. Andrew, none-too-gently, pushed the marksman toward a pair of waiting hands in the chopper. They lifted Chris inside with little fanfare.

  “Please board, sir,” said one of the operators kneeling on the tank roof.

  “I’m last off, Sergeant,” Andrew said, noting the man’s rank.

  “Sir…”

  “That’s an order, Mister. Move it!”

  The man didn’t argue. He and his buddy spun and mounted the helicopter with fluid motions, jumping up to the boarding steps, catching handholds and swinging themselves in. Andrew was half a second behind. He’d only been in a Blackhawk a handful of times, and had never boarded one that was hovering a foot off the ground.

  The instant his head cleared the door, the roar of the engine intensified, and they gained altitude. Someone passed him a headset which he quickly donned.

  “Welcome aboard, Lieutenant,” the lieutenant colonel said.

  “Thanks, Colonel,” Andrew replied, and snapped a quick salute which the officer returned.

  “I’m hoping you’re the pilot of that AC-130 that did a combat run on some zombies outside a farmhouse about 40 miles southwest of here earlier today.”

  Was that only this morning, Andrew wondered? It felt like days ago. He almost shook his head, then realized there probably hadn’t been many AC-130s doing close air support missions against zombie hoards outside farmhouses.

  “That must have been me,” he agreed.

  “Excellent. Are you a transport stick? Ever flown a C-17?”

  “Sir, I’d never flown a C-130 until today. I’m an F-15 pilot, but I’ve also qualified on the F-22 and F-35.”

  “That’s too bad. You think you can wrangle a C-17?”

  “I suspect I’m going to need to, or you wouldn’t be asking, sir.”

  “You are correct,” Cobb replied.

  Andrew gestured with his head toward the civilian woman who’d manned the M240 earlier. She looked familiar, somehow.

  “Who’s that?” Andrew asked.

  “Long story,” the colonel responded. The woman had a tiny, sophisticated digital camera and was recording as they flew. Andrew wanted to know more about the strangely familiar female who rode with the operators.

  The Blackhawk flew 200 feet over the tanks, and Andrew could see a line of six with zombies crawling all around them like angry insects. Infected completely covered the roofs of all but the one they’d just taken off from. Many fell off the sides as they tried to reach the helicopter that now circled the entire structure.

  “Oh fuck,” Andrew said, then he addressed the colonel again. “Sir, do you h
ave missiles?”

  “We have two 2.75-inch rocket pods and a pair of Hellfires.”

  “Do me a favor?” The colonel nodded, and Andrew gestured with his head toward the tank he’d just taken off from.

  Cobb considered for a bit, then changed channels and talked to the helicopter pilot. The craft began to climb and angled away. Andrew waited as they moved a mile away, and the pilot cut a hard, banking turn. The chopper’s nose dipped toward the tank farm. Andrew heard a loud “Woosh!” as a missile left the rails.

  He leaned out and caught the streak of the Hellfire missile as it angled down into the side of the middle tank. Nothing happened for a second, then the ordnance detonated. The 18 pounds of metal-augmented charge, or MAC, went off inside the tank that was about one-quarter full of crude oil, setting off the fumes. The tank seemed to bulge ludicrously for an instant, before exploding into a brilliant ball of fire and debris.

  Flying pieces of burning steel perforated the adjacent tanks, and they likewise exploded. In a matter of seconds, all six tanks were towering columns of fire. Andrew could see thousands of tiny, burning figures flying, flailing, and running into the desert. The tanks sent columns of dark smoke into the early evening gloom, a funeral pyre for the undead.

  The shockwaves from the blasts buffeted the helicopter slightly. After a half-minute of watching his handiwork, the pilot spun them around and headed northeast toward Fort Hood.

  * * * * *

  Chapter 26

  Tuesday, April 24, Evening

  The 250-mile flight took the Blackhawk more than an hour and a half. As the pilot climbed to 5,000 feet, they were temporarily back in sunlight while the flat expanse of southern Texas below them headed toward darkness. Here and there, a light was visible to the west. Where Laredo should have been, there was nothing.

  As they flew, Andrew got a situation report from the colonel, and the two men spent a few minutes telling their stories. Andrew left out the fact that he’d been in custody, heading back to the States to stand trial, and Cobb left out the fact that, until a few hours ago, he’d been retired and having an affair with the reporter.

  By then, they’d flown 100 miles north, and the weather was deteriorating. The sun had fallen below the western horizon, and the skies to the north were dark and angry. Finally, Andrew asked about the rest of the country.

  “How widespread is this?” he asked Cobb over the headset. “Is the military containing it? The CDC?”

  “As far as I know, there no longer is a country,” Cobb said. Andrew stared at him in horror. “General Rose, in command at Hood, said they’ve lost all contact with the national command authority. We still have direct radio comms with a few bases, but that is becoming sporadic.”

  “It’s that bad?” Andrew asked.

  “As bad as you can imagine,” Cobb said, then thought of something. “General Rose mentioned, just before we lifted off, that they’ve been unable to raise any Marine units. That isn’t necessarily strange—there are fewer Marine bases—but an Air Force general friend of his said he’d seen a formation of Marine transport planes fly into Patrick AFB early this morning. They left a few hours later and headed southwest.”

  “Southwest?” Andrew wondered aloud. “Sounds like Boca Chica. What the fuck are the Marines up to?” Cobb shrugged.

  “Colonel Pendleton?” the pilot called over his headset.

  “Go,” Cobb replied.

  “Sir, we’ve got major weather between us and Hood. It could get bad. Do you want me to go around?”

  “No,” Cobb said. Outside, the rain had started to hit the helicopter and was blowing into the passenger compartment. The gunners retracted their machine gun mounts. “Keep us on course. We need to get back to Hood as quickly as possible.”

  “Yes, sir. I recommend everyone brace themselves for some chop.”

  They didn’t have to tell Andrew twice. He found a seat and grabbed one of the hold straps. A minute later the ride began to get progressively bumpier. The colonel sat down, and Kathy sat next to him. It wasn’t obvious to everyone, but Andrew saw her shaking as the helicopter began to ‘elevator,’ from the turbulence. The colonel reached out and took her hand, giving it a squeeze, and she gave him a half-smile.

  Chris sat next to Wade, both lost in thought as they grimly held on during the wild ride. Andrew thought Wade was asleep until he saw him reach out with his left hand to grab a ride strap, which he gripped with white-knuckled intensity.

  They flew on in total darkness, passing over the western edge of San Antonio. A sprawling city of a million and a half, it should have lit up the night from 100 miles away. It was quite visible, but not because of electric lights. A thousand fires raged below as San Antonio blazed. The rain was, at times, torrential, and it showed no signs of putting out the fires below. They were too high to see anyone on the ground, though they did see sparkles of light from time to time that reminded him of ground fire. It was like the colonel said; everything was falling apart.

  “What do you think the general’s plan is?” he asked Cobb.

  “Frankly, I don’t know,” Cobb admitted. “But we can’t stay there much longer. We’re holding the perimeter through sheer firepower. If it falls, everyone is dead.”

  “Maybe we should head for Boca Chica?”

  “Worth a thought,” Cobb said. “Mention it to the general when we land.”

  Eventually they started descending. The weather hadn’t cleared, but the rain was less intense. They could see a line of thunderstorms to their west, and Cobb hoped it wasn’t heading their way.

  As the helicopter dropped lower, the base appeared through the forward windscreen. Unlike San Antonio, electric lights lit the base. As they passed over the central part of Fort Hood’s structures, Andrew could see many ablaze, and others surrounded by thousands of creatures who stood in the rain, looking up and reaching as the helicopter roared overhead. Like the ones in Mexico and South Texas, many were at least partially naked. Many wore the remains of military uniforms.

  The helicopter began a turn, and Andrew saw the airfield. Just as the colonel described, he saw the quickly-improvised defenses, lines of soldiers and Humvees, their guns flashing from time to time. There were huge stacks of bodies against the barricades.

  “It’s getting worse,” Cobb said and pointed.

  About 100 meters from the gate leading from the airfield to base operations, they’d stacked the bodies so high against the fence, the creatures were using the mound to get over the top, and it had bent inward. As they fell over the fence, an old M1 Grizzly engineering vehicle used its plow to shove the entire meaty mess backward, fence and all. Having pushed it back as far as the fence would allow, the Grizzly retreated and men with a crane took ten-foot concrete barriers from a flatbed truck, then lowered and linked them together to close the breech. Soldiers fired from the top of the Grizzly, and one rode the top of the first barrier, holding on with one hand and shooting a machine gun with the other like a comic book hero.

  “How long is the ammo going to hold out?” Andrew wondered.

  “The general emptied a couple of bunkers before they bugged out to the airfield,” the pilot chimed in. “The problem isn’t the bullets, it’s the guns. Even a Ma Deuce can’t shoot indefinitely without overheating.”

  The Blackhawk finished its turn and lined up on one of the dozens of helipads, windshield wipers working furiously against the downpour. Andrew noted that Blackhawks, Chinooks, and a pair of V-22 Ospreys occupied most of the pads. He wondered why the Army had Ospreys—which only the Air Force and the Marines used—but then he remembered there were a few C-17s there as well.

  The pilot flared and set them down on the pad with minimal jarring, locking the brakes and cutting the engines. The operators piled out immediately, followed by the colonel. None of them took the least notice of the buckets of water pouring from the sky, and Cobb paused to shake hands with each of them, sure they would be working together again soon.

  “Thanks again for th
e rescue,” Andrew said after Cobb finished with the other men.

  “Least I can do, after you pulled my bacon from the fryer at that farmhouse.” He gestured toward a waiting Humvee. His “civilian companion” was already heading that way. Chris and Wade stood next to the Blackhawk, watching the blades slowly settle. A ground crew approached with fuel and munitions.

  “What about my friends?” Andrew asked.

  “The civilians? There’s a hangar over that way. They’re welcome to wait there.”

  “These two are a little better than your average civilians. I think they’ve both proven themselves after surviving that.”

  Cobb considered the two men. One was around 50 and balding, with a slight paunch. He had an M16 slung competently. The other was maybe 25 and had a lot more than just a paunch. Cobb doubted the kid had ever set foot on a treadmill. From his dress and demeanor, he pegged him as a video gamer or IT geek. Yet, he had an M9 pistol in his belt and had survived with the others through untold zombie attacks until extraction.

  “Okay,” Cobb relented. Together, they rode the short distance to the airfield operations building General Rose was using as his command center.

  As they drove, Andrew saw movement everywhere as soldiers loaded helicopters with equipment or configured them for passengers. They were preparing to evacuate.

  Cobb led them inside the building, into what had been a conference room. The table was gone, and a temporary command center had been set up, including a wall of portable comms gear and a huge dry erase board with a map of the U.S. drawn on it. Someone had marked all the major cities. Most of them had once had green or yellow circles around them, but now they were all crossed out in red. He noticed LA was still yellow, and Key West had a big question mark. Other boards had long lists of supplies someone had prioritized. Yet another listed names with some sort of ID code next to each.

  “General Rose, this is Lieutenant Andrew Tobin, U.S. Air Force.”