Army of the Damned (Sky Ghost #1)

by P. T. Dilloway

  Hunter wasn’t nearly so fluid, but he managed to bring his cleaver down hard enough to embed it into the skull of a young Elvis. The Elvis groaned and then dropped to the plush red carpet; Hunter managed to jump back in time to avoid the zeeb falling on him. He reached into his belt for the butcher knife. He ducked under the lunge of a jumpsuited Elvis and then stabbed the impersonator through the right eye.

  By then the fight was over. Hunter had taken out two, JP one, and Max the rest. The pile of bloodstained Elvis impersonators lay on the carpet, finally unmoving. JP shook his head. “Elvis has left the building.”

  While the police had been cleaning that up, Hunter, JP, and Max were called back to Nellis. There had finally been enough incidents for the government to start taking it seriously. All leaves were cancelled until further notice—which turned out to be forever.

  That had been Hunter’s first run-in with the undead, but far from his last. Staring at the rainbow-colored Space Needle, he knew there were monsters even worse than the undead out there.

  ***

  The seaplane could avoid radar, but the noise of the engines made it easy for the living and undead to hear it. Hunter put the seaplane down in the industrial section of the city to the south. He climbed out and then dropped into the dark water to wade ashore, carrying a rope with him to tether the seaplane. The rope would be easy enough to cut if someone were so inclined, but it would keep the seaplane from being carried away by the current.

  By the time he had secured the rope to a post, JP had waded ashore with their weapons. Hunter hoped he wouldn’t need the M4, but it might come to that if they ran into any stray packs of zeebs or the human thugs who had taken up residence in the city. “We should have brought a couple of bikes or something,” JP grumbles as they start to walk down a vacant street.

  Some of the buildings they pass were already abandoned before the outbreak while others had been turned into trendy lofts. They don’t see any lights, but that doesn’t mean someone couldn’t be holed up in there. Hunter keeps a hand on the butt of his pistol as they walk in silence to avoid drawing too much attention.

  They get a few blocks before running into the first zeebs. They’re strays, not a pack. From the black leathers they’re wearing, they were probably part of a gang before they got killed. “You take the little one. I’ll take the big one,” Hunter says.

  “Sure thing, buddy.”

  With only two of the zombies, they don’t use their guns. Hunter takes out the knife strapped to his leg and then approaches a zeeb that has to be six-seven at least. The zombie growls at him as it picks up his scent. Hunter waits for it to lunge at him before he runs a few steps forward and then leaps into the air. The blade of the knife comes down in the zeeb’s left eye socket. It groans once and then collapses to the pavement.

  JP needs a couple more seconds to dispatch the smaller zeeb. He uses the zeeb’s coat to wipe the blood off his knife. “Always good to get warmed up.”

  “Let’s hope we don’t have to work out too much,” Hunter says.

  When he sees a guy in ragged clothes rifling through a trashcan, Hunter assumes it’s another zeeb. He takes out his knife to finish it off. At the last moment, though, the man squeals in terror and then raises his hands. “Hey, man, I’m alive! I’m alive!”

  Hunter pulls back the knife. From the greasy gray hair and beard and the stink of trash, this guy seems more like a bum than a gang member. Hunter nods to him. “What’s your name?”

  “Dylan.”

  “I’m Hunter. That’s JP. You been around here a while?”

  “Sure, man. I used to work at Starbucks. The original one down by Pike Place. Then everything turned to shit. First it was the zeebs and then the Seabirds. I’m not sure which one is worse. Probably the Seabirds. I mean, the zeebs are easier to avoid and they’re basically just animals, you know? Following their base instincts and stuff. The Seabirds are people who act like animals.”

  “What do you know about the Seabirds?”

  “Enough to know I don’t want to be near them. What you guys doing here anyway?”

  “We’re looking for someone. A woman. She would have been brought in today.”

  “That don’t mean much. They’re always bringing in folks. At least those not as good as hiding as me.”

  “Look, old-timer, we know they usually take the new girls to the hotels around the Needle,” JP says. “You got any idea which one they might have taken her to?”

  Dylan scratches his beard. “You know, I think I heard someone mention they got a meeting going on tonight in the Needle. Some guys from out-of-town coming in. They might have taken your girl straight to the Needle. I mean, if she’s a looker.”

  JP gives Hunter a look. He sighs and then nods. “She was a looker. Any idea what the security in the Needle is like?”

  “If they got something important going on, I reckon it will be pretty tight,” Dylan says.

  Hunter nods. That sounds about right. “Thanks for the information. You ever think of leaving this place?”

  “Well sure, but I ain’t growed wings yet,” Dylan says.

  “We have a plane a couple blocks back that way,” Hunter says, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. “It’s tied up by a dock. You watch it for us and when we get back, we’ll fly you out of here.”

  Dylan strokes his beard again. He’s probably weighing whether they’ll come back or not. He finally nods. “Guess it wouldn’t hurt to wait around a little bit. You boys be careful.”

  “We’ll try. Thanks.” As Dylan shambles off towards the plane, looking again like a zombie, Hunter and JP start for the Space Needle.

  “How the hell are we going to get in there?” JP asks.

  “We’re going to need a distraction,” Hunter says. He sees the football stadium looming ahead of them. “I think I have an idea.”

  ***

  “There’s no way this will work,” JP says.

  “It’s worth a shot.”

  “Yeah, well, they might believe you’re one of them, but not me.” They had spent the last hour searching through an apartment building to find a pair of black leather jackets and some paint to smear Seabirds logos on them. The paint is still a little tacky, but hopefully that won’t matter.

  Hunter runs a hand through the sandy beard not so different from Dylan’s. “Maybe we could find you a fake beard.”

  “Or maybe we can find a beehive and I can wear a beard of bees,” JP grumbles.

  They don’t run into any zombies on their way to the football stadium. Hunter sees a couple of guys dressed about like they are with rifles slung over their shoulders as well. They’re sharing a bottle of something clear to fight off the chill in the air.

  As they approach, Hunter makes sure to have his hands in view. “Hey guys, you mind sharing that bottle?”

  One of the guards turns, yanking a revolver from its holster. “What the hell do you want?”

  “Hey, easy, we’re just here to relieve you.”

  “Yeah? I ain’t heard nothing.”

  “Mad Dog sent us,” JP says. “He also said there’s some great tail up in the Needle if you guys are interested. Unless that’s not your thing.”

  “What the hell you trying to say?” the guard with the bottle shouts. “We ain’t no fags.”

  The other one’s eyes narrow at Hunter and JP. “I don’t remember seeing you guys around.”

  “We ain’t been here long,” Hunter says. “That’s why we’re getting this shit job.”

  The guards continue to study them for a moment and then shrug. “You guys want to stand out here freezing, be my guest. But you’ll have to get your own booze.” The guards snicker as they head out into the night, taking the bottle with them.

  “I can’t believe that worked,” JP says.

  “Ye of little faith,” Hunter says. They slip through the front gates, into the stadium. Like most sports stadiums, this one was used as an evacuation center during the outbreak. Most of the stadiums became tom
bs when inevitably some of those taking shelter inside died and then turned. This place doesn’t look too bad off, just a lot of graffiti smeared on the walls and the concession stands looted for anything usable.

  As when it was an evacuation center, the playing field has become a makeshift campground. There are hundreds of olive drab tents that are probably the same ones the National Guard used during the outbreak. Scattered fires in barrels provide some light to see at least a dozen more guards wandering around. They don’t look very attentive, which should work to Hunter and JP’s advantage.

  There are a few more guards roaming the stands. One of them stops Hunter and JP as they start towards the field. “Who are you guys?”

  “Just some extra help,” Hunter says

  “I don’t remember anyone saying—” Before the guy can finish, Hunter kicks his feet out from under him. The man tumbles down the stairs to finally land in a heap at the bottom of the stairs.

  The noise brings another guard over. “What the hell happened?”

  “He slipped,” Hunter says. He motions as if drinking from an imaginary bottle.

  “Shit. Boss isn’t going to be happy about that.” The guard shakes his head. “Damned if I’m going to clean this up. Let those assholes down there do it.”

  The guard leads them into the camp on the playing field. When he was a little boy, Hunter had dreamed of walking on an NFL field, but this wasn’t what he had in mind. They pass a couple of tents and then the guard stops at one to throw open the flap. “Hey, jerk-offs, get your asses up. I got a job for you.”

  Hunter barely manages to keep his surprise in check when one of the men who emerges from the tent is Max Benjamin. The Israeli looks thinner and is sporting a bushy black beard, but otherwise he looks the same. If he recognizes Hunter and JP, he shows no sign. Hunter just hopes the man’s krav maga skills are as sharp as they were in Vegas.

  In one fluid motion Hunter takes out his knife and then jams it into the guard’s belly. With his other hand, Hunter silences the man’s screams. Max and the three other prisoners stand there in shock, not sure what to make of the situation. “We’re here to bust you guys out,” JP says.

  “JP?” Max asks.

  “That’s right, buddy. I brought Hunter with me.”

  “I don’t believe it. I never thought I’d see either of you again.”

  “Feeling’s mutual. Look, there ain’t much time to chat right now. Take this guy’s weapons. Then let’s get moving.”

  Hunter distributes the guard’s rifle, pistol, knife, and brass knuckles; Max takes the latter. They start to wind their way along the playing field, taking out a few more guards quietly. The third one they get to manages to raise an alarm before Hunter can slash his throat. “Looks like it’s time to party,” JP says.

  Hunter takes the M4 off his shoulder and then fires a few shots into the air. “Listen up, everyone! My name is Major Hunter Hawking, USAF. My comrades and I are here to free you. You want to get out of here, now’s the time!”

  This brings prisoners out of their tents to look around groggily. Those quicker on the uptake grab the nearest Seabird guard to pummel him into submission. Before long it has turned into a full-fledged riot with the Seabirds on the losing end of it.

  Hunter grabs Max by the shoulder. “I need you to play Moses and get as many out of here as you can. We got a seaplane south of here, by the docks. There’s an old guy named Dylan watching it. Tell him we sent you. If we’re not there in an hour, you get that plane airborne with as many as you can squeeze into it. Head for Snowcap Mountain. General George is there.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “The Needle.”

  Max stares at him for a moment and then pats him on the shoulder. “Good luck, my friend.”

  “You too.” With that, Hunter and JP start out towards the Space Needle.

  Chapter 5

  Thanks to the riot in the football stadium the streets have turned to chaos. The Seabirds they pass are either going to help try to quell the riot or are making a run for it. No one bothers to stop Hunter or JP as they reach the visitor’s center of the Space Needle.

  The guard who stops them has a walkie-talkie in one hand and a pistol in the other. “How bad is it out there?” he asks.

  “Pretty fucking bad,” JP says. “Those guys are seriously pissed. Almost as bad as the zeebs.”

  “Just great. We are so fucking boned.” The guard presses a button on his radio. “Hey, I got two more here.”

  “Send them up and then get the cars ready. They’re going to make a hot evac,” a voice comes back.

  “I got it.” The guard clicks off his radio. “Get on the elevator. The bosses’ guests are going to make a run for it before the shit hits the fan much worse.”

  “We’re on it,” Hunter growls. He leads JP over to the elevator to take them up to the old observation deck. Hunter had rode the elevator up when he was ten; it had gone fast enough that his stomach had shot into his throat. This time is calmer. For one thing the elevator is moving at about half-speed and another he’s in a lot better condition to handle the G-forces.

  It takes about three minutes for the elevator to finally stop. Hunter has his M4 off his shoulder, ready for trouble. The doors open to reveal another guard. He steps back without a word to let them into the observation deck.

  The observation deck has been turned into someone’s idea of a harem with a lot of pillows and gauzy curtains. At one time there might have been women on the pillows, but now they’re cowering in one corner, all of them dressed in I Dream of Jeannie fashion with veils, bikini tops, and translucent pants. Hunter tries not to let any reaction show to see a woman in a light green outfit, a bandage around her right thigh.

  He nudges JP in the ribs and then nods slightly. “That’s her. The one with the bandage,” he mumbles.

  “Damn, she is a looker,” JP says.

  “About time you two got here,” a man growls. With the radio in his right hand, he must be the one talking to the guy downstairs. “You’re going to get Reverend Shelley and the girls to the airport. Then get your asses back here.”

  “Sure thing, boss,” Hunter says. He looks around but doesn’t see anyone who looks like a reverend anywhere. “Where’s the reverend guy?”

  From nowhere appears a man dressed in a black uniform that looks like what a Nazi SS officer would wear, except instead of swastikas there are gold cross epaulets. He takes Hunter’s hand. “I’m Reverend Shelley,” he says, his voice carrying a Texas accent. “I certainly hope you boys won’t have any trouble getting me and my new charges to safety.”

  “No problem, Reverend,” JP says. He motions towards Casey and the other girls. “That all that’s coming?”

  “Yes. And my men, of course.” A couple of thugs dressed like their boss appear from behind the girls. The thugs each have a sub-machine gun that in a pinch could kill all of the girls in about ten seconds. “Now, let’s be on our way.”

  One of the thugs nudges Casey in the back to get her moving. She grunts and then starts to limp towards the elevator. She’s smart enough not to show any sign of recognizing Hunter as she’s herded into the elevator with the others. He stands next to her in the elevator; he waits until no one is looking to take her left hand and give it a squeeze.

  When they get down to the ground, the guard they met on the way in says, “You guys better hurry up. The zeebs are breaking through the perimeter. It’s going to be feeding time pretty quick.”

  “We’ll take care of it,” Hunter says.

  There are four SUVs out front, each with a driver and another Seabird. Hunter makes sure to stay close to Casey as they get into the rear-most seat of the lead SUV. Reverend Shelley takes the middle seat along with one of his thugs and a couple of the girls.

  JP is in the second car; Hunter hopes no one catches wind of anything fishy while they’re separated. As the convoy starts out, Hunter nods to Casey’s bandage. “That looks bad.”

  “It’s all ri
ght. The bullet went clean through,” she says.

  “It must hurt.”

  “They gave me some pills. It’s not too bad.” There is a glassy sheen to her eyes to back up what she said. He wonders what exactly the Seabirds gave to her; he hopes it isn’t anything too addictive.

  The riot hasn’t spread far enough uptown yet to create a problem for the convoy. The driver pulls onto I-5 and then starts south for the airport. There are abandoned cars all over the highway, but the Seabirds must have long ago cleared a path to get from their headquarters to the airport.

  The highway provides a good vantage to see the city that had been almost completely dark is now dotted with fires. Hunter can’t see the seaplane; by his count they only have fifteen minutes left before Max is supposed to take off. Whether Max will keep to that schedule or not he doesn’t know, but Hunter already has a pretty good idea of another way to get out of here.

  ***

  Like most of the international airports, Seattle’s has become a graveyard for commercial airliners. The Seabirds have probably cannibalized the usable parts from the wrecks that were left to rot when the shit hit the fan. Along one runway, he sees a line of vintage fighters, most from the World War II era as General George had said.

  The convoy passes those fighters, crossing to another runway where a Gulfstream private jet is idling. The private jet was already pretty exclusive before the outbreak, but Hunter imagines now they’re as rare as the X-29 back at Snowcap Mountain. The plane must belong to Reverend Shelley as someone has stenciled a black cross on the tail and on the door.

  The SUVs come to a stop to one side of the Gulfstream. Reverend Shelley is the first one out. “Come along, my children. Follow your shepherd to a far more pleasant pasture, where you shall want for nothing.” He raises his arms to shout, “You will be delivered from this den of iniquity! This pit of sin! And then you will be baptized in His love!”

  “Actually, I have a better idea,” Hunter says, jamming his pistol into the reverend’s back. “My friend, the ladies, and I are going to take this plane. You can stay here in the den of iniquity.”