Arisen, Book Four - Maximum Violence

by James, Glynn

  Eli turning – just before the vehicle slammed into the top of the wall – then diving forward and disappearing beneath it as it went airborne…

  The crushing noise as the 4x4 collided with the wall, its entire front collapsing as the back of the car surged upward and over, flipping in a somersault once, then twice, as it careered forward across the yard, completely airborne…

  The driver, as well as the zombie that had been attached to him by the mouth, both launched out of the vehicle, flying through the air in a tangle of limbs and crashing into the ground-floor exterior of the building. The zombie pancaked into a mass of black gunk, but the man carried on through one of the ground-floor windows, as one of his legs was torn from his body.

  The outer wall had exploded with the initial impact. Old, cracked, and weak brickwork scattered across the yard in massive chunks as the oversized truck smashed through it. Eli had hit the ground beneath it, barely dodging the tons of deadly steel that passed over his head – but smashed his chin against the tarmac, losing consciousness instantly. But his wound was minor compared to the two Marines who hadn’t jumped clear in time. Neither of them even turned, and they were swept up by the 4x4 and driven through the wall.

  Jameson looked on, battling shock, as one of the dead men’s helmets rocketed all the way across the yard and bounced off the building, finally rolling back across the hard ground and coming to rest at his feet. He realized with a jolt of horror that most of the man’s head was still inside it, staring up at him with a look of utter shock on his face. The other casualty was almost unrecognizable as a human being, having been crushed between the wall and dragged across the yard until the vehicle finally crashed up against the building. As it impacted, windows shattered on the first two floors, spraying what remained of their glass outward in showers of sparkling crystals.

  Jameson reeled. Two men down in an instant, men who had marched across undead Europe and come out the other side smiling. The first casualties his team had taken since their long journey back to Fortress Britain. And they had died being run over by an out-of-control truck – killed by some idiot who thought he could drive away and escape the dead even while they were clinging to his face.

  An idiot, or a man in sheer panic. Or both.

  And now the full mass of dead in the stairwell of the building couldn’t fail to notice the Marines, as well as the gore that now littered the yard. They grew animated, turned, and the nearest in the mass pile-up pulled themselves free and began staggering toward the battered Marines.

  “All-around defense!” shouted Jameson, realizing they were now the center of attraction for not only all the dead stumbling around the city, but also the hundreds crammed into the target building – the ones trying to get to the very people the Marines were there to save. Was anyone even still alive inside? Or was there a hellish banquet taking place on the upper floors even at that moment?

  “Move up, into the yard!” he shouted. “Secure this position!”

  Into the exclusion zone, he thought, the spot that would not be hit as the carpet-bombing began – at least, they dared hope it would not.

  And that bombardment would be starting any second now.

  Jameson noticed a downdraft from above. Looking up, he belatedly saw the Lynx utility helicopter hovering fifty feet above them. He felt his ragged nerves twitch as its shadow blocked out the sun. For a moment he’d thought the whole damned world was collapsing in on them, or at least the building coming down. But then he saw the net full of rucksacks, at the end of a steel cable, heading rapidly down toward them.

  Supply drop. Ammunition and water.

  Jameson held his position in the line, firing into the horde, and slowly moving toward the collapsed wall, until he finally spotted Eli – who was still not moving. Jameson let his rifle fall to his side and grabbed his friend under the arm, hauling him up over the rubble and into the yard, then laid him down on the ground. He knelt next to him, aimed his rifle into the heaving mass, switched to full-auto, and depressed his trigger. And he didn’t let go again until the magazine was empty.

  He didn’t hear the rumble of the heavy bombers in the distance, even though they were approaching rapidly. Nor did he hear the first whistling sounds, as high above them the first of the bombs was released.

  It did catch his attention when the skyline of buildings to the north lit up, and the world began to explode all around them.

  Have Fun Storming the Castle

  Beaver Island

  Fick hefted the not insignificant weight of his rifle and grunted with satisfaction as he felt the bomber’s tires impact the tarmac, and the plane settle and begin to slow. He put his hand on the hatch handle below and before him. He wouldn’t wait for the plane to reach a full stop before getting it open and getting out. He adjusted his grip on his weapon.

  All the men on Fick’s team, stacked up behind him down the middle of the bomber, carried SCARs – the SOF Combat Assault Rifle, upon which the Marine Special Operations Command had finally standardized, only a couple of years before the fall. These were lightweight, modular, reliable-as-hell tan assault rifles with adjustable shoulder stocks and ACOG optical gunsights. Two of the men, designated as grenadiers, also had Underslung Grenade Launcher Modules (UGLM) which could pump out high-explosive 40mm grenades when things got hairy.

  All of the men on his team had them… but not ole Master Gunny Fick himself. He toted a positively ancient M16A2, underslung with a good ole Remington 12-gauge shotgun. It even had the full, fixed, plastic stock. Sure, it was a relic of Vietnam. But it made him happy. And, okay, some guys complained that it jammed a lot – but those were the same shitheads who didn’t clean and maintain their weapons to an exacting standard. And if it was good enough for the poor bastards in the Ia Drang Valley in 1965, then it was good enough for him.

  And in little elastic loops across the front of his tactical harness there nestled row after row of red 12-gauge buckshot shells, for the underslung shotgun. The red was kind of bright and, yeah, maybe it was like a flag to a bull with the Zulus. But it also helped him to stay visible to his men. He kept a few on his back as well. Because that was the side of him his men were most often going to see.

  Fick led from the front.

  As the plane braked and slowed, Fick tersely parceled out assignments. Everyone more or less already knew what they were doing. Direct action against an airfield was a pretty standard mission profile.

  “Reyes and Chesney – you’re on me. We’re going to take down that control tower. Brady and Graybeard – secure the landing strip, and strongpoint the aircraft. If we get in trouble, we’ll call you up. If you get in trouble… well, you’re on your own for a few minutes. Just shit your pants, jump in, and swim.”

  “Aye aye, sir.” The refrain went four times. The Marines’ roots were as an amphibious force, sailing upon the seas to fight on foreign beaches. Hence their name. And they still not infrequently talked like sailors.

  Fick nodded and grunted and gave the hatch a heavy yank and pulled it clear. Hanging his weight with one hand, he dropped out onto the runway, and took off at a run. He knew the men would be behind him.

  Or they’d miss all the fun.

  * * *

  He held his weapon to his shoulder – every Marine is a rifleman first and last – and fired careful, aimed, but rapid single shots, as he ran toward the looming tower.

  He was hitting Romeos in their heads, dropping them around the perimeter of the clearing. You had to have nearly perfect training to hit runners while moving yourself. But it was a rush when it worked.

  It was intuitive that the fast ones would get there first. But it still wasn’t particularly helpful. And, behind them, there could be little doubt that a lot more of the slower Zulus were waiting in the wings. Or, rather, were shambling their way to Beaver Island Airport even as the Marines assaulted it.

  Fick hit the side of the control tower at a run, the momentum of his loaded frame slamming him into it. Only then could he
see that Reyes and the Kid were a half dozen steps behind him. Back beyond them, Graybeard and Brady were setting up a two-man perimeter around the aircraft, which had finally rolled to a stop, its propellers spinning down. Both of them fired steadily toward various points around the treeline.

  There wasn’t heavy opposition – yet. And the Marines were methodically cutting down what there was.

  Fick had aimed for the only visible door on the ground level of the tower, and now he simply tried the handle. No go. He reached to his vest, pulled out one of the few blue shells, a breaching round, loaded it into the shotgun under his M16, pumped it into the chamber, then followed it with a second one. While he did so, the other two stacked up behind him, ready to hit the building.

  BOOM! the first 12-gauge round took off the top hinges. BOOM! and the lower ones went. Fick pulled the door clear, put his weapon to his shoulder, and hit the ground floor. He swung fearlessly into the dimness, going left. He knew Reyes would be taking the right side – and the Kid clearing the stairwell ahead. Room-clearing and CQB (close-quarters battle) were definitely a part of MARSOC training – though, because of their heritage in the recon community, it tended to take a back seat to long-range recon, patrolling, amphibious insertion…

  The ground floor was clear, and they proceeded to clear the rest of the structure one level at a time. Below the top floor, the control room, it was mostly office space, and mostly empty. But when they hit the second level from the top, they found what looked like an improvised living space – and a storehouse. There were stacked pallets of bottled water, MREs, canned food, and bags of what looked like roots and tubers scavenged in the forest. Finally, there was cured meat – skinned and trimmed animal carcasses hanging by hooks.

  Some kind of hunter lived in this place.

  Which Fick figured jibed with their experience of the place so far – getting sniped.

  Finally, only the top level remained. The three spec-ops Marines formed another door stack at the top of the stairs. This door was already hanging from its hinges, so Fick tossed in a flash-bang grenade, waited for it to go off, then blasted inside, the others fanning out behind him.

  Almost the whole top level, the flight control deck, was covered in rubble.

  The roof was still there in some places, mainly the back; but the front section, previously glass-fronted, had collapsed, leaving it open to the air. Fick pivoted and stepped forward, sweeping his weapon across the corners and piles of crap and debris. Something scraped and bumped audibly. Fick turned toward it and started to advance – but, nearly instantly, several rifle rounds triggered off, presumably in response to the noise, to Fick’s right. It was Chesney shooting.

  And in the same instant, something exploded on Fick’s chest, knocking him backward, then down to one knee. His neck and chin burned from it and he smelled cordite and scorched nylon.

  He brought his weapon back up to his shoulder, ignoring the pain. Over his sight, he could see Reyes advancing toward the spot where the initial sound came from – while the Kid, looking panicked, raced over to help Fick. He waved him off. “Support the fucking assault,” he said. Someone was evidently still shooting at them; casualties could be dealt with later.

  And anyway, he still had the rest of his sector to clear. Fick let his eyes tear and run, climbed to his feet, and started moving again. Within a few seconds he had cleared the remaining corners of that level. It was basically one big room anyway.

  And a second after that he realized: no one, in fact, had been shooting at them.

  A glance down his own front told him that one of the shotgun shells on his vest had gone off, nearly exploding in his face. And a look around at the remaining walls of the control room, which were all steel, told him what had happened: a ricochet from the Kid’s reckless burst of fire had bounced back at him, and set off the shotgun shell.

  Goddamned fucking fire discipline, Fick thought as he circled back around to the other two. But there was no time for that lecture now. While the Kid covered him, Reyes slung his rifle and started shifting debris from one specific pile of it. He threw big hunks of drywall, ceiling panel, insulation, and God knows what else behind him. Fick shrugged and pitched in.

  Within a few seconds, they had unearthed a human figure.

  The man wasn’t really moving, pretty much out cold. He was covered in white dust, but could be seen to wear a military field uniform. Fick brushed off the shoulder patch. It read: Princess Patricia’s Light Infantry. Reyes pulled a flexicuff from his vest – basically a big garbage-bag tie, but tougher, and which tightened but didn’t loosen – and secured the prisoner, while Fick fanned out a few meters, and the Kid continued to cover them.

  It didn’t take Fick much digging around to find it – a McMillan Tac 50 sniper rifle buried in the debris a few feet from its owner. This was a gigantic, long-range anti-materiel/anti-personnel weapon, some serious hardware. The rifle’s owner also wore a side arm, a 9mm Browning, which Reyes relieved him of.

  As Reyes dragged the secured soldier over to one of the remaining upright walls, the man slowly started to return to consciousness. His head lolled, finally banging back on the wall, at which his eyes began to flutter open. The three Marines stood in a loose circle around him.

  Chesney’s boyish features bloomed into a big smile.

  “Holy shit!” he said. “It’s Robert fucking Neville! In the flesh! Big fan. Thrilled to meet you.”

  Gunny Fick spat some blood off into a corner, gave the Kid a shove, and told him to get his ass back down to ground level – and get the SSR from the goddamned plane and hump it back up here. Because if this elevated firing position had been good enough for the guy sniping at them… well, the Marines were definitely going to need it to hold off whatever number of dead bastards had been attracted by all the racket.

  And God only knew how long they were going to have to hold it.

  Robert Neville

  Beaver Island

  Robert Neville was the name the MARSOC Marines had always used for solitary long-term survivors, holed up somewhere with a lot of firepower – and very accustomed to shooting first and asking questions never. It came from I Am Legend, the protagonist of which had New York all to himself after the Apocalypse. Alpha tended to call these guys LaMOEs – the Last Man on Earth. Until recently, the two teams had been living their own private ZAs, so it was no surprise their lingo didn’t match up perfectly.

  On the other hand, both groups had independently hit upon designating the dead as “Zulus.” With the military mania for phonetic alphabet slang, and “Tangos” meaning terrorists in the last war, that they all landed on this was probably inevitable.

  A look at the name patch on the blouse of the Marines’ new prisoner, however, revealed to Fick that this man was not named Robert – but Bo, Bo Longfoot. And Longfoot was a Master Corporal – a rank pretty much unique to the Canadian Forces.

  “I know this man,” Fick said quietly, squatting down before him in the destroyed air traffic control room and looking into his still swimming eyes. Fick glanced behind him, where Reyes was cocking an eyebrow, looking vaguely bored. Reyes usually seemed pretty blasé about whatever was going on – including furious combat. “Well, I know the name, not the man,” Fick said. “This dude used to hold the world record for longest confirmed sniper kill. In Afghanistan, on a Taliban fighter – at twenty-six-hundred yards, if memory serves.”

  “Twenty-six-fifty-seven.” The man’s voice was raspy, but otherwise audible enough. Fick pulled the bite tube from his Camelbak, and stuck it in Longfoot’s mouth. The dazed man took a long suck, swirled and spat – probably a lot of chalk dust in that mouth after the roof collapse – then drank for a full five seconds. He took a deep breath and shook his head, as if to clear it. Underneath all the white powder, he was a good-looking but now nearly middle-aged man, still in good shape.

  “Cheers,” he said.

  “Fuck you,” Fick said, yanking his hydration tube back. “Why the hell did you light us up?
” Gunny Fick did not enjoy being shot at with extremely large-caliber weapons. Being in a plane that was trying to land at the time didn’t make it any better.

  The man smiled. Really, he kind of leered. It was the smile of a madman. Fick’s frown deepened in response. Longfoot finally answered, sounding like he thought he was pretty cagey: “Figured maybe the dead had gotten smart. Learned to fly World War Two-era heavy bombers.” He nodded his head once, looking like he might actually wink. “Or else it was the ANA, coming back for one last green-on-blue attack.”

  Fick blinked once. “Afghan National Army? What the hell are you even talking about?”

  The man’s very dirty head lolled on his neck. “Or it could have been the Nazis, back from South America… yeah, Nazi zombies…”

  Fick shook his head. This poor bastard was clearly batshit crazy. Living on his own for two years, probably after watching his entire unit and all his friends get eaten, had rotted his brain. Fick didn’t have time for this and rose to leave. But as he did so, Longfoot’s expression seemed to clear somewhat. In a calmer, quieter, and colder voice, he said:

  “In any case, it sure wasn’t the Canadian Air Force, was it? The hell with ’em.”

  * * *

  Interview over or not, they were interrupted by the sound of the Kid coming back up the stairs toting their SSR – the Sniper Support Rifle they had stowed on the plane, along with a lot of other equipment in case of heavy weather. It was an accurized version of the SCAR everyone else carried, but chambered in the heavier 7.62mm round. It had an adjustable stock, folding bipod, extended barrel, and Nightforce 2.5-10x scope, and was incredibly accurate out to a thousand yards. In addition to the rifle in its case, the Kid had a backpack full of 20-round box magazines – basically one shit ton of ammo, enough to keep the rifle fed all day.

  “Up here,” Fick barked at Chesney, who dashed over and met him at a big slab of concrete, previously the roof of the tower, which now canted up at an angle from the edge of the half-destroyed flight deck, and overlooked the whole airport. While the Kid got the case opened and the weapon assembled, Fick surveyed the scene. The field of fire from this spot would be excellent – it was basically the same view as the air traffic controllers had, overlooking the east end of the runway, with a view straight down it all the way to the western end.