“What sort of job?”
“Working with our pilots. Many of them have experience, but others are far less skilled. We could use a man of your experience to lead one of our squadrons.”
“That’s quite a job offer. You mind if I ask where you got those planes from. You have to go to Russia or something?”
“There was a Russian airbase near the Latvian border. When the outbreak hit, the personnel abandoned their planes and equipment. I discovered the place still intact. With some of my comrades, we took apart the entire air wing and crated them up. We gathered the transport planes to carry the crates out of Russia.
“My plan was to use the planes myself. As you’ve seen, a group of such aircraft are vastly superior to anything out there. I thought in America there would be a better opportunity given your country’s obsession with free enterprise. Then I ran into the reverend and we agreed there was a better use for my aircraft.”
“That’s some story. What happened to your comrades who crated up the planes?”
“They are all dead. They did not share my belief in the church.”
“That’s harsh.”
“Life is harsh. If you had been born in the East like me, you would know that.” Friese blows out a cloud of smoke. “You Americans were so spoiled with your ‘freedom.’ You spread that disease to the rest of the world. It was only inevitable there would be retaliation to purge the earth of its sickness.”
“How old were you when the Wall came down?”
“I was only ten, but my father was a leader in the Party. He continued to believe even after Reunification.”
“Sounds like you still believe too.”
“The church and the Party believed in the same thing. Only different mechanisms.” Major Friese gestures to a clock on the wall. “It’s time for us to go.”
Hunter gets to his feet. He snuffs out the cigar in a brass ashtray. As he follows Major Friese to a waiting black SUV, he hopes this wasn’t his last night in the place.
***
The field of the University of Utah stadium isn’t much different than the one he stepped on in Seattle. The stands might be smaller, but there are a lot more people in them than in Seattle. Almost all of those people are wearing the black uniforms of the church. There is a section of wranglers and other mercenaries, guarded by armed church officers to make sure they don’t try anything.
Hunter has shed his uniform jacket to keep his shoulders loose. He goes through some stretches to help loosen up his muscles. He does a little jogging in place too while he waits. Someone has left a couple bottles of Gatorade on the home team bench; he chugs half of one to keep himself hydrated.
There’s an audible hush that comes over the crowd. Hunter looks around to see what has brought on the silence. Then he sees a group of men walking into the old press box. He can’t tell who they are, but they must be important from the way everyone is reacting. It might even be the reverend himself.
The crowd starts to applaud and cheer again. Hunter turns to see someone coming out of the tunnel. He squints to make out his opponent. He supposes he shouldn’t be surprised. Not after what happened.
Outback Jack struts out of the tunnel like someone who is certain he is going to win. The way the crowd is cheering, they must think that too. Hunter continues warming up, trying to look oblivious to Outback Jack’s entrance.
“G’Day, mate,” Outback Jack calls out.
“So you’re the one they picked, huh.”
Outback Jack snickers. “No, mate. I’m just here to set up the props.”
‘“Props?”’ Hunter echoes. Then he sees the figures shambling up the tunnel. Zeebs. A whole pack of them being led by Hunter’s former co-workers from the slaughterhouse. The way the zeebs growl and snap, they haven’t been fully tamed yet.
“You ever watch that Gladiator movie, mate?”
“What’s your point?”
“You remember when they chained up those tigers around the ring while Crowe and that other bloke fought each other?”
“I see. Instead of tigers you’re using zeebs.”
“That’s right, mate. Not many tigers round these parts. So we’re making do.” Outback Jack snickers and then starts directing the wranglers where to station the zeebs. Each zeeb has a heavy chain attached to its collar. The wranglers plant the chains into the turf with thick metal stakes. Hunter isn’t sure how long the stakes will hold, but he supposes if they do come loose it will just make the fight more interesting.
Once the zeebs are in place, Outback Jack claps Hunter on the shoulder. “Good luck, mate. You’re going to need it. Oh, and no hard feelings, right?”
“Right.”
As Outback Jack and the wranglers jog off the field, the public address system comes to life with a trumpet fanfare that silences the crowd. The video screen on the scoreboard then shows a test pattern before it shifts to a shot of inside the press box.
Sitting in an ornate chair like a Caesar is a man in a black uniform with gold trim and sparkling diamond crosses. This is clearly the reverend. To his surprise, Hunter recognizes the man from during the liberation of Seattle.
It’s Reverend Shelley.
It only gets worse from there. On Shelley’s left, in a uniform like Major Friese’s is JP. On Shelley’s right, shackled to the floor and clad in a bikini like Princess Leia in Return of the Jedi, is Casey. Hunter’s fists clench with rage.
There’s a lot for him to be enraged about. He had the chance to kill Shelley in Seattle and hadn’t done it. His best friend had betrayed all of them, letting Shelley and Friese know when the NWAC air force would be going to Portland so they could hit the bases without much opposition. And these sons of bitches have the woman he loves in chains for their amusement. If he had any kind of weapon, Hunter would launch himself towards that press box and not stop until Shelley, JP, and Friese are dead.
Reverend Shelley grins broadly and then holds a microphone to his lips. “Good afternoon, my friends. You have come here thinking you would be watching a baptism. I have something different planned for you: an execution.
“This man you see on the field came here under false pretenses, claiming to be a Lieutenant Mac Malone. In reality this man is Major Hunter Hawking, also known as the Sky Ghost. This man killed a good many of our comrades in the skies over Seattle. God, in His infinite wisdom, has seen fit to deliver Major Hawking here so that we might bring him to justice. Now, I believe there’s someone who would like to speak with him.”
Reverend Shelley holds the microphone to Casey’s lips. There are tears running down her cheeks now. “I’m sorry, Hunter. I didn’t know they knew. Not until they had me up here. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s not your fault,” Hunter says, though he knows Casey can’t hear him. He knows she didn’t betray him; the real traitor is on the opposite side of Shelley. Hunter raises his voice to shout, “JP! How could you do this? You killed our friends! You killed the general!”
JP takes the microphone from Shelley. “Sorry, old buddy. I liked the general almost as much as you did, but he was a fool. You think we could remake the world with a bunch of clunkers and a souped-up X-29? Get real, man. The reverend here, he has the right idea. Wipe the slate clean and then rebuild from scratch. And this time we’re going to get it right.”
“Like this? By murdering innocent people? By putting people in chains?”
“Sorry, buddy, but the reverend was always going to win. I just saved him some time and manpower.”
JP passes the microphone back to Shelley. He flashes his annoying smile again. “Now, it’s time for the execution to begin. We have chosen an opponent you should know very well. If you manage to defeat him, then you’ll have to destroy the damned all around you. Either way you’re going to receive justice. The only question is how long it will take.”
Reverend Shelley starts to laugh, as does most everyone in the stadium. The video screen fades to black. The crowd starts to roar, cheering and stomping their feet. Hunte
r looks over at the tunnel to see a pair of guards practically dragging a haggard, bearded man in a ragged flight suit. Even with the beard, Hunter recognizes him.
The man sent to kill him is Max Benjamin.
Chapter 22
One of the guards shoves Max towards Hunter. Max stumbles over a rut in the field to collapse at Hunter’s feet. Hunter helps the Israeli pilot up to boos and hisses from the crowd. That’s not part of the show they came to see.
“Are you all right?” Hunter asks.
“Hunter?”
“It’s me. Have they hurt you?”
“Not too much. A couple of beatings to keep me in line. Nothing serious.”
Hunter turns to one of the guards. “Aren’t you supposed to give us some weapons?”
“No. You punks can use your bare hands.” The guards chuckle as they back up into one of the end zones.
Max shakes his head. “You might as well kill me, Hunter. I’m not going to fight you.”
“I’m not going to kill you, Max. You’re my friend.”
“You have to. If you don’t, they’ll kill everyone.”
Max throws a feeble haymaker, but he’s off-balance so it’s easy enough for Hunter to step aside. Hunter could have easily taken Max down then, but he lets the other man get back into a standing position. Hunter gestures to the zeebs straining against their chains. “We’re both dead whether we kill each other or not. That’s why they won’t give us any weapons.”
“There’s got to be a way out,” Max says. “It can’t end like this.”
The crowd’s booing and hissing gets louder. They’ve come for entertainment, not to watch two old friends chat, surrounded by chained zeebs. Listening to them, Hunter remembers all of Gary the mechanic’s discussions of pro wrestling. That’s what this is like, one of those “cage matches” where two or more wrestlers would be locked in a steel cage until one of them was crowned the winner.
“You ever watch wrestling, Max?”
“What?”
“Wrestling. Not the Olympic kind. The kind where they bash each other with chairs.”
“Not really. I don’t see any chairs around anyway.”
“Pro wrestling is all make-believe. They pretend to hit or kick each other. Like in a movie.”
“You want us to pretend to fight?”
“Right. Then, when I give the signal, we get near those zeebs. Try to get a couple loose and then lure them into the stands.”
“They have Casey up there. What about her?”
“We’ll think of something. Now, hit me. Make it look good.”
Before Hunter can react, Max springs at him. His punch this time is a lot less wild. It misses Hunter by probably an inch, but like a pro wrestler or movie stuntman, he staggers back like Max really made contact with him. Max fakes a kick to Hunter’s midsection; Hunter’s body convulses and then he collapses to his knees.
Max grabs his hair to yank his head back. For someone who didn’t watch pro wrestling, Max is a natural. He gives Hunter a backhand slap across the face—or that’s what it looks like to anyone watching. “You son of a bitch!” Max roars. “You left us to die! Now you’re going to pay!”
Max is loading up for a knockout punch. Hunter launches himself from his feet. He doesn’t hit Max very hard in the midsection, but Max sells it by stumbling back, his arms flailing. Hunter stands over him, poised to kick Max in the midsection. “You were supposed to get them out! You were supposed to lead them to safety! You failed!”
As Hunter starts his kick, Max grabs his foot. He doesn’t twist very hard, but it’s Hunter’s turn to sell it by tumbling to the ground. They pretend to grapple on the turf for a couple of minutes, neither one gaining much advantage. From the roars of approval, the crowd is eating it up. Now is the time to move to the next phase.
“OK, cuff me a good one and then toss me towards one of the zeebs,” Hunter says.
“Hunter—”
“Do it. I’ll let it go, like I’m trying to use it to kill you.”
“If it bites you—”
“Then I’m dead. But it’s our only chance.”
“I suppose so.”
“When I free the zeeb, you go for another one. Then we’ll come together and I’ll toss you towards the stands. At that point you need to get up there. I’ll follow you. So will the zeebs. The crowd will riot. We have to get to the press box, where they’re holding Casey. Try to get a gun from one of the guards if you can.”
“What about you?”
“I’ll do the same, but we’re probably going to get separated. You ready?”
“I’m ready.”
“OK. Let’s do it.”
Max angles his right arm back and then brings it down scant centimeters from Hunter’s cheek. Hunter groans and tosses his head as if he’s actually hurt. He goes limp, letting Max hoist him up. Max isn’t in any condition to pick Hunter up and throw him, but he can give Hunter a good shove towards the nearest zeeb.
When he judges he’s close enough, Hunter drops to the ground to roll towards the chained zeeb. It snaps its jaws with anticipation. As it bends towards him, Hunter pushes himself to his feet. He’s off-balance, but with practiced ease he sweeps the zeeb’s legs out from under it.
While the zeeb is down, Hunter claws at the chain holding it down. He grunts as he strains to yank out the stake holding the zeeb in place. It finally tears loose along with a clump of turf. Hunter takes the stake from the chain to use as a makeshift weapon. With his other hand he grabs the chain.
“Come on, boy. Come and get it!” He starts to tug the chain as if it’s a dog leash. He makes a long arc around the prone form of the zeeb so he can get in front of it. “Ready for a walk?”
Hunter takes a few steps towards Max, the zeeb gathering speed behind him. “Hey, Max, look what I got!”
“Oh yeah? There’s plenty where that came from!”
Max races to the other side of the field, where more of the zeebs are chained. Instead of a leg sweep, he launches himself into a flying kick that knocks the zeeb back at least a yard. While the zeeb is disoriented, Max takes hold of the chain. He gives it a good tug, but it doesn’t come free; no doubt thanks to months of captivity Max isn’t at full-strength. The zeeb lurches towards him, letting out a snarl.
Hunter lets go of the chain for his zeeb to race towards Max. He has made a terrible mistake. He should have known it would be harder for Max to get the chain out of the ground. Now his friend is going to die—
With a scream of triumph, Max yanks the stake from the ground. Like Hunter he takes the stake for a weapon. In his case he uses the blunt end to smack the zeeb across the face. While it’s disoriented, Max starts to run towards Hunter.
Max hurls himself towards Hunter, though with enough control that Hunter isn’t hurt. They again grapple on the turf, the zeebs they freed shambling towards them. “All right, this is it,” Hunter whispers. “On my mark, I’m going to knock you down and then start running towards the stands. You follow me.”
“I got it.”
“Ready…mark!” Hunter pretends to clap Max on either side of the head. Max shimmies a little on top of Hunter and then collapses to one side. The zeebs are close enough that he can smell the decay on their breath. He shouts, “You’re not going to get me, Shelley!”
Then he breaks into a run towards the stands. The walls are probably six feet high at least, but it shouldn’t be too difficult to make it to the top, especially with a running start. He runs the numbers through his head and then launches himself towards the wall.
His hands catch the top of the wall. He feigns a struggle for a moment, wanting Max and the zeebs to have time to catch up. And for Shelley to dispatch some guards towards him. He can already hear them pounding down the stairs while the crowd cheers wildly at the spectacle. After a rough start, he has given them the show they wanted.
He pulls himself over the wall to drop into the first row of stands. A couple of church members try to push him back, but he use
s the blunt end of the stake to knock them down. “I’m coming for you, Shelley!”
There are three guards up the stairs, all of them armed with AK-47s. Hunter grabs the nearest church member from the stands to shove towards the guards, throwing their aim off. Before the guards can draw a bead on him, Hunter springs on the nearest one. He hits the man upside the head with the stake; the guard is disoriented enough that Hunter can yank his rifle away.
He doesn’t want to risk hitting any innocent bystanders in the crowd, so he makes sure to pull the barrel up enough to fire harmlessly over the guards’s heads. It’s enough to make them duck. Hunter seizes the opportunity to steady his aim. He sprays the two guards until they go limp.
Max joins Hunter in the stands. The zeebs are at the wall, but they aren’t bright enough to get over it by themselves. Max has already foreseen this; he has the chains staked to the side of the padded wall. He takes the stake out to start hauling up one of the zeebs. Hunter joins him to grab the other chain.
They take a few steps back as the zeebs roll over the top of the wall. The crowd remained sitting with shock when Hunter shot the guards, but the sight of two wild zeebs finally propels the crowd into action. They begin to scatter in a panic, their cheers and roars turned to screams.
Hunter grabs the AK-47 of one of the fallen guards and then tosses another to Max. “Let’s go!”
There are more guards at the top of the stairs, but with the crowd stampeding, there’s no chance for them to get a clean shot. Hunter hits one in the face with the butt of his rifle, Max following suit with another. There’s no more pulling punches now for either of them.
The crowd’s momentum helps to move the guards aside so Hunter and Max can get into the concourse. Hunter isn’t sure where the press box stairs are, but there’s a helpful sign to guide him. Max is still a step behind him, having fought through the crowd struggling to escape from the stadium.
There’s a pair of guards at the foot of the stairs. Hunter smashes the helmet of one with his AK-47 while Max takes the others. Before the guards at the top of the stairs can react, Hunter snatches a flash-bang grenade from the fallen guard. He hurls it towards the press box and then turns his head. He knows it has gone off when he hears cries of pain from upstairs.
Army of the Damned (Sky Ghost #1) Page 20