Indestructible: V Plague Book 7

by Dirk Patton

  “Sir, I don’t…” Blanchard stopped speaking when Crawford raised his hand.

  “Captain, here’s what’s going to happen.” Crawford said, stepping forward. “I’m staying and you’re going.”

  “No, sir…” Blanchard started again, but went quiet when Crawford glared at him.

  “The Colonel here is right. You’ve got a lot more to offer the handful of survivors of the human race. And throwing your life away, while noble and honorable as hell, is foolish. You’re young. You’ve got a lot of years left to help these people rebuild.

  “You’re the smartest, most capable young officer I’ve ever had the privilege of knowing and serving with, and I have no doubt you’re more than ready to lead these people. That’s why these are for you.”

  Crawford extended his closed hand, opening it and dropping a pair of silver eagles in Blanchard’s palm. Blanchard gaped at them before looking up to meet his commanding officer’s eyes.

  “I’m getting to be an old man, son.” Crawford continued. “This new world, whatever becomes of it, isn’t a place for old men. I’ve spoken with Admiral Packard and he supports my decision. It’s done. And his orders are for you to get on the next plane out of here. Contact him when you get to Nassau. Is that clear, Colonel?”

  Crawford stepped back, came to attention and raised a salute to Blanchard. Pointere immediately joined him, both of them waiting for the new Colonel. Blanchard looked up, his eyes damp, took a deep breath and nodded before coming to ramrod attention and snapping off a perfect salute.

  52

  The Air Force defenders ran, pounding across the bridges like the minions of hell were on their heels. And they weren’t far behind. Without the constant fire from thousands of rifles, the infected were able to pile up and reach the top of the fence. The first females there became tangled in the coiled razor wire, their flesh slashed open to the bone.

  But the ones behind them cared nothing about their fate, scrambling over them as if they were nothing more than another obstacle in the way. It started as a trickle, a few dozen females breaching the perimeter at half a dozen different locations. Then the first section collapsed under the weight of hundreds of bodies and the flood began in earnest.

  Soon more sections broke open, and within a short time there were thousands of infected inside the wire. Females sprinted forward, drawn to the lights and activity at the flight line. Males shambled along in their wake in a single-minded pursuit of warm flesh.

  The last bridge was pulled only a minute before a hundred screaming females arrived on the far side of the moat. The ones in the lead leapt, easily making it halfway across the ditch before they fell to the bottom. Several broke ankles or legs, but most landed and sprang back to their feet to charge the far side.

  One of Colonel Blanchard’s parting gifts had been an idea to slow the infected even further at the moat. There had been several thousand steel plates used for diverting jet blasts on a flight line in storage at the base. They had come from two other Air Force bases that had been decommissioned due to budget cuts. The DOD hadn’t wanted to leave them to rust, so had paid a contractor handsomely to disassemble, load, transport and store them at Tinker.

  The plates were ten feet tall, twenty feet long, curved and already had stout steel mounting rods attached to them. A veritable army of civilian workers had used heavy equipment all day to bring the plates out and drive their mounts into the ground along the inner edge of the moat. The concave side, the same side that would have taken a jet engine blast and diverted it safely upwards, was faced towards the moat.

  Nearly doubling the height the infected had to climb to clear the defensive layer, the plates also presented a surface that couldn’t be scaled. Because of this the infected couldn’t get past them until they piled deeply enough to climb over those who went into the moat ahead of them. But long before hands would start grasping the top edge of the plates, Pointere had another surprise in store.

  The infected continued pouring onto the base, the fence down in so many locations now that it hardly hindered their progress. At each point where a bridge had been across the moat, men held the tide back with machine guns as the curved plates were brought in and put in place. Once the gaps were sealed, it was a waiting game.

  The fuel trucks began pumping jet fuel into the moat, the infected oblivious to the extremely flammable liquid that turned the ground under their feet to mud and soaked into the clothing they wore. Enough fuel had been set aside to top off the planes that would be returning for the final wave, the rest allocated for the defenses. When a truck ran dry, a driver would head for the closest access to the underground storage tanks.

  More fuel was pumped in as the infected kept piling up. Watching from the roof of a large truck, both Pointere and Crawford stared in awe as every inch of land beyond the moat was quickly covered by the seething mass of bodies. The moat was already full to ground level and they were starting to pile up against the metal plates.

  “How high do we let them get?” Crawford asked.

  “Not much more,” Pointere answered when sporadic rifle fire broke out as females began making heroic leaps and grabbing the top edge of the plates. “How long for the evac wave?”

  “Seven and a half hours,” Crawford answered, checking his watch.

  Pointere shook his head and both men turned to look behind them at several large hangars. Five thousand men and women, including the Air Force personnel that had defended the fence all day were nervously milling around. If the Marines and Rangers didn’t hold out, every single one of them would be dead before the sun came up.

  “Pretty fucking stupid of you to stay behind,” Pointere commented, fishing out his last two cigars and handing one to Crawford. “And what was that bullshit you were shoveling? Old man my sweet ass. What are you? Fifty?”

  “Fifty two. On my next birthday,” Crawford said, trimming the tip of the cigar with a small pocketknife. “It was the only way to get him to go, short of having a couple of MPs cuff him and drag him onto a plane. I wasn’t going to do that to him. What about you? Why were you so quick to stay?”

  Pointere ignored the question, taking his time getting the cigar lit, drawing deeply as he watched the surging infected. More and more rifles were speaking, knocking females off the top of the barricade. Generator powered floodlights had been set up to provide illumination for the workers as well as the Rangers and Marines. In the ghostly, white light he could see nothing beyond the moat other than a raging sea of death.

  “Spark it up,” he said into the radio Blanchard had left with him.

  Moments later there were shouts up and down the defensive perimeter as the word was spread. He caught sight of a white phosphorous grenade that was lobbed into the moat, then there was a ground shaking whoomp as thousands of gallons of JP8 fuel ignited.

  Flames shot fifty feet into the night sky, racing through the tens of thousands of tightly packed bodies in the moat until the entire defensive layer was burning. Thick, black smoke boiled into the sky, and the two Colonels could feel the intense heat wash across them. Defenders fell back, but the steel plates that were designed to deflect jet engine blasts did a good job of protecting those at ground level from the scorching temperatures.

  Soon the smell of burning human flesh reached Crawford and he wrinkled his nose, pushing down memories of a lifetime of war. He and Pointere stood in awe as the fire consumed the infected, those behind pushing into the flaming cauldron of the moat without any regard for their own lives. Raising a pair of binoculars he surveyed the line, pausing in his scan when he realized what he was seeing.

  “The females are holding back, clear of the fire.” He said. “The same behavior Major Chase reported. They’re getting smarter.”

  Pointere raised his binoculars, grunting as he watched. “They’re going to wait for it to die down, then charge the line.”

  “Pretty much,” Crawford agreed.

  JP8 burns at 6,000 degrees Fahrenheit and it consumed flesh and bon
e. The breeze was light and shifting, frequently blowing clouds of choking, black smoke across the waiting defenders. The Rangers and Marines began donning the respirators from their MOPP gear to filter the vile air they were breathing.

  On the far side of the moat the females had stopped when the fuel was ignited, pulling back a hundred yards. Males continued to push forward, flowing through the static females and stumbling towards their death. The heat was so intense their skin began to blister when they were within fifty yards of the trench. At forty yards the hair was singed off their bodies. Inside thirty yards clothing burst into flame, yet they were undeterred.

  Eyes boiled and exploded out of their heads. Skin melted away exposing the underlying muscle and bone. Before they even reached the edge of the moat, they fell to the ground, dead, as the water inside their skulls flashed to steam and boiled their brains. The females remained at a safe distance, impassively watching their brethren perish.

  The carpet of charred remains stretched out from the defensive layer for close to thirty yards. The males from the rear continued to push forward, grinding the dead into ash under their feet, adding to the depth of the burned bodies when they fell.

  “Hell is empty and all the devils are here.” Pointere said, binoculars still pressed to his eyes.

  “Shakespeare. The Tempest. Act 1, Scene 3, if I remember correctly,” Crawford said.

  Pointere lowered the binoculars and looked at him. “Scene 2, actually.”

  “Don’t look so surprised,” Crawford said. “I’m the one that should be impressed when a Marine quotes The Bard.”

  The radio clipped to Pointere’s vest crackled and he moved it close to his ear to listen. After a moment he acknowledged the report and turned back to Crawford.

  “They’re pumping the last of the available JP8 into the moat. Time to make the rounds.” He said.

  The two men climbed down from their vantage point, heading in opposite directions. Soon, the fires would burn down and the females would charge. Modern weapons would only hold them off for so long, then all that would be left to the defenders would be personal, hand to hand combat. Until they were overrun.

  53

  The residential area at the bottom of the slope was quiet. Dark and quiet. Other than the sound of trash and leaves skittering down the streets, being tossed by a night breeze, nothing was moving. The houses were small and not particularly well kept. Most were in need of repair and paint, and the few front yards that showed any green were only growing weeds.

  Not a good neighborhood. The kind where you expect to see Pitbulls chained to trees while sullen men work on rusting cars in the shade. But we didn’t see any of that, though I would have been happy if we had. The complete absence of life meant that there had either been a house-to-house evacuation, or the population had turned.

  I led the way through the empty streets, rifle in front and ready to go if needed. I hoped it wasn’t needed, as I didn’t have much ammo left. One encounter with even a small group of females, or any size group of armed survivors with bad intentions and I’d be dry.

  Dog walked at my side, alert as ever as we pushed deeper into the abandoned city. Katie and Martinez walked a few feet behind us. Katie carried my pistol, which was also low on ammo and wasn’t sound suppressed. I’d reminded her not to fire if there was any possible way to avoid it. Martinez walked with my Ka-Bar knife held loosely in her right hand.

  We weren’t well armed, but we could still fight if we had to. I hoped that wouldn’t be necessary. I was counting on finding a vehicle we could commandeer to get us across the city and to the airport where the National Guard air unit was housed. But so far there wasn’t a single car or truck to be seen. At least none of the houses had garages, only a few of them even boasting a single space carport. That saved us the time of having to check every garage we passed.

  It wasn’t long before we reached a commercial area. Keeping to the darkest shadows I brought us to the rear of a squat, cinderblock building that had been painted white sometime last century. A dark neon sign advertised liquor and videos. There was a small door that opened into the rear lot that once upon a time had been protected by a heavy iron security gate.

  The gate now rested in the gravel parking lot, twenty feet from the building. Large chunks of the exterior wall had been torn out when it was ripped away and the door it had protected was gently swinging back and forth in the breeze. The opening was black, the inside of the store even darker than the night, and I suspected there were similar security measures on the front that blocked any moonlight from making it to the interior.

  I would have bypassed the building, but there was a ten year old Jeep Cherokee sitting in the back lot, front bumper pulled up close to the dirty wall. It didn’t take Sherlock Holmes to realize it most likely belonged to an employee, or possibly the owner, of the liquor store. If we could find the keys, we had our ride to the airport.

  “Check it,” I hissed to Martinez as I kept the rifle trained on the open door.

  “Locked up tight,” she said a minute later.

  Shit. I’d hoped we’d get incredibly lucky and the keys would be dangling from the ignition, the gas tank full and the doors unlocked. I might as well have been hoping for Santa Claus to swoop in and give us a ride. Either scenario had about the same likelihood.

  “You two stay here and keep watch. Dog and I are going in,” I said, not waiting for an acknowledgement.

  Pausing to the side of the entrance, I checked on Dog. He stood directly in front of the opening, head stretched forward as he sampled the air. After a few moments of watching him and not hearing a growl, I stepped through into the pitch-black interior. It probably wasn’t as dark as some areas of the caverns, but it was too dark for me to be able to see a threat before it was on top of me. I was very happy to have Dog at my side.

  Moving deeper into the store I shuffled my feet as I walked. I had no idea what objects might be on the floor and I’d rather kick something than step on it and turn an ankle. The smell of alcohol was overpowering. Whiskey, rum, tequila, and the sickly sweet aroma of beer told me that there had been a lot of bottles broken and their contents spilled.

  “Stay!” I mumbled to Dog.

  There had to be a lot of broken glass on the floor and I didn’t want him to slice his feet open. He hadn’t alerted on the presence of any danger, infected or survivor, so I was fairly confident in proceeding without his nose, eyes and ears at my side.

  I had only taken a couple more steps when the toe of my boot came into contact with a bottle, sending it spinning across the hard floor. There was a crunch under my foot, and I was glad I’d stopped Dog when I did. Moving on, every step I took was on shards of shattered glass, the crunching and cracking sounds seemingly as loud as gunshots in the silence of the dark building.

  The store was small. No larger than the average convenience store. It didn’t take long for me to reach the front, bumping into a waist high counter. Reaching out I could feel a chipped laminate covering, then something smooth that ran from the counter up as high as I could stretch my hand. A bullet proof sheet of glass, I realized after a moment. No. Not a good neighborhood.

  And not good news. The presence of the protection against armed robbers meant the entire register and office area was most likely secured. I had hoped to either find a body with keys in the pocket, or keys left behind the counter, but my optimism was fading.

  Covering all my bases I followed the counter, bumping along in the dark. Reaching a corner I turned and ran into a door that gave when my body touched it. Access to the register, and it was standing open. Stepping around it I stopped when my foot hit something that felt soft. Squatting, my suspicion was confirmed when I touched a body.

  It was male, I could tell that much as I ran my hands over the corpse searching for pockets. I found a wallet, a pack of gum and a disposable butane lighter, but no keys. Flicking the lighter, I blinked in the light of the flame and looked at the dead man. He was middle aged with a swarth
y complexion and closely cropped beard.

  A conservatively colored Kufi, a traditional cotton cap worn by many Muslim men, covered his close cropped dark hair. His throat had been torn out, almost certainly by an infected female. Blood soaked the front of the knee length Kurta, a Muslim shirt, which he wore over jeans. His body had fallen across the threshold to the small, secured area, preventing the armored door from swinging closed.

  Stepping over the dead man, I held the lighter higher and searched the area with my eyes. A cash register occupied most of the available counter space, a small calculator sitting next to it. On the next shelf down I recognized a rolled prayer rug, next to it the butt of a pistol. Grabbing the weapon I shoved it in my waistband and kept looking, finally spotting a large ring of keys.

  The lighter’s flame was shrinking, and I looked for another. A display stacked high with all different sizes was to the side and I was reaching for one when I spotted another display targeted at the impulse buyer. Small, LED flashlights. Grabbing one I clicked the rubber covered button on the end and it came on. Not a lot of light, but plenty in the small, dark store.

  Shoving two more in my pocket for Katie and Martinez, I picked up the key ring and examined it. At least two dozen keys, more like what a janitor would carry than a small business owner, but there was a key with the Jeep name and logo stamped on it. Dropping the ring in my pocket, I was turning to head back to where I’d left Dog when something caught my eye.

  Aiming the light I frowned when I realized what it was. A stack of Passports on one of the lower shelves. Picking them up I shuffled through, noting issuing countries of Syria, Saudi Arabia, Yemen and Kuwait. I began opening them, looking at the photos and names. There were twenty-four in all, each of them with a different photo of a young, Middle Eastern looking male, and each also contained a US Student Visa.

  None of them were the man on the floor who was easily twice the age of any of the Passport holders. I started to get upset, then came to my senses and tossed the stack on the floor. This guy was most likely involved with terrorists. There was really no other reason for him to have all of these documents. But it didn’t really matter. All of these guys were probably already dead, or had turned. And if they hadn’t, they would soon.