Survivors

by Z. A. Recht

  “Fuckin’ ay,” the other one said. “RSA forever, brother.”

  Stone blew a breath out his nose. “Yeah, that.”

  He continued down the hallway, stopping once at the recovery room, grimacing at the mess in there.

  “Damn,” he whispered. He kept a close eye on the still forms of both men as he stooped to grab the firearms on the floor in there, a Beretta and a SIG P226. Slinging his M-16 over his shoulder, he continued down the hall with an automatic in each hand.

  At the double door at the end of the hallway, Stone stopped, seeing drops of blood on the normally clean floor. They didn’t surprise him, considering the amount of blood coming out of Mason’s room, but he did wonder who the blood belonged to. He followed the trail back to a side room, where he found towels ripped to strips and sodden with the red stuff.

  “Not one of ours, then,” he said, deducing that whoever was bleeding that much had been through a grinder with Mason.

  Checking the safeties on the automatics, he eased open the double door past BL2 and BL3 and slid through it.

  As he climbed, Krueger thought back to the days before Morningstar and shook his head. He would never admit this to any of the others, but he was kind of grateful for the virus, or whatever it was.

  No, that wasn’t quite right.

  He didn’t like the disease, or what it had done to his friends and the people he’d served with. What it had most likely done to any and all of his family here in the States.

  But he was glad for the change. He never really felt at home unless he was holding a rifle. The only way he felt he could really connect with people was when they were swanning around in his crosshairs. If he’d said anything like that before Morningstar, they’d have him in a psych eval before he could say “Section Eight.” But these days?

  He was an asset.

  He got to the absolute top of the grain silo and combat-crawled to a box he’d secured up there some weeks earlier, when the threat of Sawyer and the RSA seemed imminent. Before weeks passed and no one showed and everyone got complacent.

  In those days, he’d risked his hide to bolt this box to the top of the tower, just in case he needed some extra shelter.

  Just like Thomas with his armory in BL2, Krueger was prepared.

  Having made up his mind as to which of the buildings was the other sniper’s nest, he got comfortable and sighted in after consulting his memo book for the range.

  “Here we go,” he sang lightly. Slowly, carefully, Krueger moved his reticule from one structure on the rooftop to the next, keeping his eyes and mind open for a collection of shapes that might be a man.

  A third shot rang off the side of the tower, impatience taking the countersniper’s edge.

  “Yeah-huh,” Krueger said, seeing the slight movement in the dark that he knew was the sniper, working the bolt on his rifle.

  “Gotcha.”

  Brewster’s mouth moved in silent pantomime in Lieutenant Finnegan’s binoculars. He recognized “Run, goddammit, run!” Behind the last four were some more of his own men, and behind them, more of the walking dead.

  He spoke to his radioman. “Tell Blue squad . . . is that Blue or Red? Fuck it. All three teams, order them off. I’m calling the choppers on the tangos.” He cleared his throat. “Then call the choppers on the infected.”

  The radioman turned and relayed the information to both parties, then turned to look through his own binocs.

  “I don’t think they’re going to make it, sir.”

  Finn looked at the magnified view as a sprinter came out of a side street and tackled the rearmost of his men. “Run faster, you assholes!”

  Another sprinter came from behind the shambler horde and took yet another RSA soldier.

  “No time,” Finn breathed. “Tell those chopper pilots to get off their asses and run some goddamn interference!”

  Frowning, the radioman relayed the further order, wondering what the hell the lieutenant was thinking. He knew that the Apaches were loaded with high-explosive rounds and nothing else. Picking off carriers while his men ran down the street wasn’t going to be pretty.

  The truck started easy enough, and as they came around the front of the Fac, Thomas, Sherman, and Stiles saw the chopper start its strafing run.

  “See?” Thomas asked, pointing. “And nobody wanted to go to see what the National Guard had. Good thing I went anyway. Stiles, take the wheel. I’ll hump these over.”

  Grabbing the cases from Stiles, Thomas jogged to the middle of the yard and set them down. With an efficiency born from experience, the sergeant major had the first Stinger weapon-round case open and ready to go.

  Stiles, watching this and shifting his glance from Thomas to the Apaches and back again, told Sherman, “Maybe you better take the wheel, sir, and let me man the gun.”

  Sherman looked out at Thomas, already in motion: the BCU was in place, and the weight of the Stinger sat on Thomas’s right shoulder, with his right hand on the pistol grip. He unfolded the antenna and raised the sight assembly, plugging in the IFF unit and directly ignoring it.

  Sherman looked at the helicopter, knowing the pilot would be alerted by his radar warning receiver as soon as Thomas started to lock on to him. “Maybe you better,” he said, opening his car door.

  As Stiles and Sherman exited the truck, they heard the characteristic windup of the Stinger. Five seconds passed as Stiles got into the back of the truck, and that was plenty of time for the sergeant major to do his job. Neither Stiles nor Sherman could hear the tone change from where they were, but as Sherman slammed the truck door, Thomas fired.

  Holding his breath, Thomas threw down the spent system and started cracking open the second weapon-round case before the missile had even found its target.

  And find the target it did; on a jet of fire and rage it sped skyward, tracking the chopper’s last-minute evasion attempt and meeting it with a yellow and red blast, creating a temporary sun in the night sky.

  The second chopper turned from its strafing run and approached the Fac.

  “Thomas, move your ass!” Sherman yelled. Then to Stiles, “Get shooting, man!”

  Thomas was mostly deaf from the weapon launch and did not hear the ex-general, but knew he had to be quick. Stiles was already there. He swiveled the SAW-249 around and was spitting lead at the second chopper in an instant.

  That instant came too late. Before the first chopper’s fiery remains were settled on the street, the second chopper pilot had loosed a complement of seven Hydra-70 rockets on Thomas’s position.

  The cheer wrenched from the survivors at the first chopper’s demise died in their throats as the second chopper fired its rockets. The Hydra pod spat seven glowing rods of death toward the Fac, and not even the approaching shamblers from behind stopped the survivors from ceasing their run. Brewster fell to his knees as he recognized the target.

  “Oh, fuck no.”

  Earth and fire geysered from the Fac yard where the ordnance struck home, obliterating any trace of the sergeant major. The truck, now driven by Sherman, started back around the side of the Fac, while Stiles on top kept up his fire from the SAW.

  The chopper pilot, an experienced one, slid his attack copter around the stream of fire and repositioned to better return some of that aggression. Bullets heated the air between the chopper’s portion of sky and the Fac yard.

  “Sir, there’s something else,” the radioman said. “Look here; there’s something on another radio frequency—”

  Finn turned back and raised his binoculars. “Tell the pilot to stop fucking around and take that shithead out. Then turn his guns on the shack. Son of a bitch, I thought that radio equipment didn’t work?”

  The pilot and gunner worked in tandem to finally strike the truck, taking out the engine and front end. As it rolled, Stiles was thrown wide, coming up painfully against the side of the Fac and waiting for the next volley to finish things.

  It did not.

  Instead, the chopper turned and loosed mo
re rockets at the small radio dispatcher shack, exploding it and everything inside.

  “Good work,” Finn said with a smile. “Send in the APC and extract the agent and our goddamn cure.”

  Keeping his eyes screwed shut, Krueger put his head down as the first chopper exploded. It was bright enough that, even with his eyes closed and his head down, his night vision was messed up.

  “Ah, shit, shit.”

  He blinked rapidly, trying to clear the blobs from his sight, and could hear the chatter of the SAW as it fired on the second chopper.

  Turning on the tower top, he looked up in time to see the first rocket volley.

  Balanced precariously at the tower top, he thought he’d have a better shot if he was back down on the walkway, but with the constant back-and-forth of machine gun fire, he knew that by the time he got down, it would be too late for whoever was on the receiving end down there.

  Added to that, the helo pilot was a good one. The helicopter jerked around in the sky, making full use of all three dimensions. Krueger grinned . . . most gunners he knew (had known, he thought) had difficulty adjusting for the fact that helicopters could backpedal if they needed to.

  A thought struck Krueger and he dug around in his shirt pocket.

  “Come on, I know you’re in there. Fuck yeah.”

  Working the bolt on his rifle, he withdrew the round from there and put in its place the cartridge from his pocket, one with a green tip and gray ring. He set himself and tracked the chopper’s erratic movements and wondered, idly, if he’d be able to hit the pilot.

  “Bet your ass,” he said, and pulled the trigger as the second rocket volley sped away from the helicopter.

  And it dipped.

  Krueger’s shot streaked through the night, a bright white line between him and the chopper that went high, higher than he thought, even buffeted by the rotor wash as it would be, and missed the cockpit, instead hitting rotor housing above and behind the pilot. A small explosion went off there, rocking the helicopter.

  And Krueger, stunned for a moment that he had missed, froze in place until the chopper began to swing around to his position. More HEDP rounds from the M-230 chain gun ate their way up the side of the tower as he scrambled for the back and hoped that whatever was inside was enough to stop the molten-metal armor-piercing rounds.

  The gunner, tired of this game already, let loose one more rocket, and the top of the tower blew apart in an ever-expanding rain of metal and fire.

  Underneath, the survivors had regained the small lead on the carriers and did not stop for this fourth explosion. They ran for the Fac, intent on jumping onto the fence and taking their chances with the razor wire there, if only to get away from the screaming, shambling horde behind them, which was growing by the second.

  A backward glance by Allen showed him that the sprinters were being held back and frustrated by the sheer numbers of shamblers, but he knew that wouldn’t last forever.

  The throaty roar of a large engine caught their attention, and from a main road directly ahead of them rolled an M2 Bradley Fighting Vehicle. Its hatches were closed and, as it hit the straightaway on the way to the Fac, it accelerated to top speed, leaving the survivors coughing on diesel fumes.

  They raced after it as the APC rolled through the fence around the compound and continued on toward the front doors.

  Stiles popped his head around the side of the building and saw the M2 coming on. He turned back to the overturned truck. Thomas had left his AK-74 in there, he knew . . . getting to his feet, he lurched toward the truck, stumbling badly as his aching body rebelled against the movements he was forcing it through.

  Ducking down, he crawled into the wreck, looking for the rifle. A cough caught his attention, and he looked up to see the bloodied face of Frank Sherman staring at him.

  “Finally come for me, have you?”

  Stiles opened his mouth, but nothing came out, confused as he was.

  “That’s all right, you don’t have to say anything,” Sherman said, coughing again. “Been expecting you. I know you’ve had a lot on your hands, with Morningstar and all. I understand. I wondered how some of us made it so long. After all, the death rate is the same for us as for anybody . . . one person, one death, sooner or later. Guess you came later.”

  Shaking his head, finally understanding, Stiles put out a hand. “I’m not death, sir. I’m Stiles.”

  “If you say so, son. If you say so.”

  Sherman closed his eyes.

  Knowing the men in the Bradley were only moments away from storming the Fac, Stiles dug for and found the AK-74. As he dragged himself out of the wreck, he saw Brewster, Mbutu, Allen, and Mitsui running up.

  And he heard another truck.

  The survivors stopped and stared as the camouflaged five-ton wrecker sped down the street toward the Fac, red canisters duct-taped all over the front and hood of the vehicle. Making a last course correction, the driver popped open the door and dove away, rolling on the asphalt to a stop against the still-standing portion of the fence. The wrecker was a juggernaut, tearing through a different stand of fencing as it barreled on to the rear of the Bradley.

  The helicopter pilot, coming around for a pass, saw the truck and his gunner opened fire. The HEDP rounds chewed through the chassis of the truck, but it was already too late . . . physics had taken over, and the wrecker slammed full force into the back of the M2. A brilliant fireball erupted from the front of the wrecker, engulfing it and the back of the APC in flames.

  Standing from his stopping place along the fence, Sheriff Keaton picked up his own AK-47 and commenced firing at the helicopter.

  Laughing, Brewster did the same with his shotgun, as did Mbutu Ngasy and Mitsui, all unloading at the chopper. Allen started to do the same with his MP-5, but noted the closeness of the oncoming carriers.

  He turned and fired one round at a time, trying to take out the front line of infected.

  Stiles added his firepower to Allen’s efforts, seeing the carriers as as big a threat as the helicopter.

  And in a moment, that worry was over.

  From the sky streaked a white-hot finger, touching the side of the Apache and turning it into a blossom of fire and shrapnel, and a different Apache helicopter sped past, spitting rounds into the approaching crowd of shamblers and sprinters.

  “Holy shit, we have a cavalry,” Brewster said.

  Two blocks away, Finn put down his binoculars. “Pack your shit,” he said. “We’re pulling out.”

  At the BL4 entry foyer, Stephens had his rifle tilted more toward Sawyer than Dr. Demilio.

  “I can’t believe you, soldier,” Agent Sawyer said. “We’re probably ten feet from bringing the cure to the Reunited States, and you’re buying her line of shit.”

  Stephens’s lip twitched. “Been fed a lot of shit in my time in the Army, sir. Hers doesn’t taste as bad as the rest.”

  “There is a soldier, his name is Stiles,” Anna said, talking quickly. “He was bitten in Hyattsburg, way back in January. He was bitten again two, three days ago and didn’t turn. He—”

  Sawyer cut her off. “Enough with the fairy tale, Doctor! Just tell my man where the stuff is, and we’ll all be on our way.”

  “It’s true,” said a voice from the doors.

  Everyone turned and saw Rebecca standing in the BL4 entranceway.

  “I saw it. He was bitten in the leg, and I gave him a shot of morphine so he could run. He drew off—” She broke into a sob. “He ran and got the carriers to follow him so we could escape. I thought I’d killed another one.”

  Sawyer’s lip lifted in a sneer. “This is all very touching, but—”

  “There’s more,” said a voice from behind them. The soldier, Sawyer, and the Doc all turned to find Stone behind them, an automatic pistol in each hand.

  Stephens brought up his rifle to cover Stone, who ignored it.

  “I was with Stiles’s group when we were attacked by infected just outside Omaha. I wasn’t with him when it ha
ppened, but I know he received another bite that day. I’ve seen it. The man is immune.”

  Little by little, the end of the rifle dropped.

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Sawyer said, and snaked out his hand to retrieve the Beretta 92 off Stephens’s belt. He jammed it up under Dr. Demilio’s jaw. “You, girl. Get the serum or cure or whatever the fuck it is, bring it to me. Anyone moves to stop me, and I spread the good doctor’s gray matter all over this room.”

  Rebecca didn’t move.

  “Better go,” Stone said.

  “It’ll take a couple of minutes. I have to get into the suit, and—”

  “Just fucking do it!” Sawyer yelled. His breath came in fast gulps and a sheen of sweat had erupted on his forehead.

  “You don’t look so hot, mister,” Stone said. “Mister, ah . . .”

  “Sawyer,” he said. “Agent Sawyer. Don’t say they didn’t tell you about me.”

  Stone shrugged. “I keep to myself.”

  Tense minutes passed while Rebecca was gone. Sawyer’s face became more and more haggard as the strain of standing with a weapon on the Doctor got to him. A touch of a tremor started in his gun hand, and he clamped his jaw down and fought it.

  Rebecca came out of the lab, a sealed vial case in her hand. “This is what we have,” she said. “It’s all we have.”

  Sawyer cocked his head. “Grab it, Doctor,” he said. Once she had it in her hand, he turned her. “All right. I’m out of here. Stephens, you can come or stay, I don’t give a shit anymore. If you come, I’ll probably have you court-martialed. Anyone tries to stop me”—he jammed the gun under Anna’s jawline even harder—“you know what happens.”

  Stone moved out of the man’s way, keeping him covered with both guns. Sawyer laughed as he backed down the hallway. “This is what it’s like to be a winner,” he said as they moved. “No one can stop you. No one can even slow you down. The only person that came close was Mason, and all he did before he died was hurt me some.”