The End Time Saga Box Set [Books 1-3]

by Greene, Daniel

  The women were out ahead of him now and Steele had to play catch up. More infected came for them in a disorganized manner. Lindsay screamed as she was tripped up by a crawling infected. Gwen spun around, a wall of dead closing behind her. Their victim was separated from the pack. Arm in arm with Lucia, Gwen turned and ran, Ashley a few steps behind.

  “Help,” Lindsay called out, kicking at the infected hands. Steele was the only one close now.

  Steele racked a round into the chamber and ran to her aid. He shot the crawler in the head and fired rounds into the encroaching others. He stooped down next to her.

  “Let me see,” he said. Her hands shook as blood seeped through her fingertips. She sniffled and tears trickled down her cheeks in streaks. The skinny brunette sobbed openly. She is no more than a girl. Her collarbones sat exposed above her soiled nightgown, arms thin from mistreatment.

  “Please help me,” she cried. Every single ounce of him wanted to help her. His mind fought his gut instinct, knowing she would die and turn into one of them. Tiny microbes in her body were already mutating destroying her insides and converting her into one of the infected. Gwen and Lucia ran for the mobile lounge, a parade of infected trailing behind them.

  “We have to go,” Steele said. His eyes said more than his words.

  “I’m okay, I swear,” Lindsay sobbed. She released the pressure from her ankle, and the blood flowed forth from the hole. He hauled her upright, her body the weight of a child.

  They wobbled ten feet and she screamed out in pain, forcing him to set her down again. He stared into her watery brown eyes. She knew. He knew.

  “I’m sorry. I have to go,” he said, scanning the area around them. We are very much out in the open. No one survived the bite.

  She pleaded with her eyes for life.

  “I can’t take you with us. You’ll turn,” he said.

  “But you just rescued us. Now you’re going to leave me.”

  I wanted to help you, but now, I can’t.

  “I can’t save you.” His mouth formed a determined half-frown. Steele aimed his gun at the top of her skull, point blank. Her brown hair was tangled, and she was filthy, roughly fifteen pounds lighter than when they had first met. She had been through a hell that most people would have given up on long ago. A mix of fear and pain clouded her eyes. The milkiness of her eyes had begun to settle in, still the doe eyes of the innocent. She blinked rapidly, almost as if she batted her eyelashes at him, but it was the fear of the bullet. You must carry out this sentence. You did not condemn her, but you must show her mercy.

  Steele let his finger slowly compress the trigger till the sound of the blast echoed through his ears. Lindsay’s body slumped down in a pile like a small rag doll left behind by a child.

  He had killed someone he considered a friend. Not only killed but literally blew her brains out. It was mercy. A mercy killing.

  Steele spit the bad taste from his mouth.

  He sprinted through trees. Branches whipped his skin, stinging his flesh.

  “Gwen,” he yelled hoarsely. Only the dead turned his way. He fled before them. He kept running until he came to a clearing.

  “Over here,” Gwen called out from behind a tree. He met her and tiny Lucia behind cover. Ashley lurked near them but not with them. A wall of bone, flesh, and virus formed between them and the mobile lounge. The dead searched for more victims unknowingly claiming victory over the moonshiner camp. Steele knelt down, catching his breath, his chest burning like fire from fighting.

  “There are more following me,” he said to them. Gwen looked back. The people mover sat idling, lights flashing in the night. It was impossible for Mauser to know where they would pop out. Once he started shooting, both the dead and Mauser would know they were close.

  “Try and get Mauser’s attention,” Steele said. When the dead get within ten yards, I will start shooting. He started his methodical shooting. Boom. He dropped a woman in a denim outfit. Boom. He dropped a man in overalls missing most of his face. The ladies shouted at the mobile lounge, waving their hands and trying to get Mauser’s attention.

  Round after round struck their target, but for every one he took down it seemed like two more took their place. Click. The hammer slammed home and nothing happened. Time to go on hands on.

  “Gwen, would you mind handing me the carbine?” he said to her. Gwen was here and his favorite carbine was in his hands. Just the way he remembered them only a lot more dirty.

  His heart sank as the dead made for them. There are too many. We are going to die.

  The rumble of the giant diesel engine gave him hope. Lights flickered as it barreled forward, but not far enough. It rolled to a stop on the edge of the hill, waiting for them, and gunfire cracked from its windows.

  “We’ve got to run to him,” Steele shouted. His eyes met Gwen’s. “Whatever happens, keep moving.”

  Steele faced the enemy and charged, not waiting for the women. Hopefully, the dead will all converge on me. He swung his way through the pack of undead, wielding his rifle like Davy Crockett at the Alamo. Mark Steele, King of the Fucking Dead Frontier. Sultan of Swat.

  With some help from Mauser shooting out the window they made it to the airport mobile lounge. They ran as fast as they could. It was a dodging contest all the way to the people mover’s tires.

  Steele hoisted up Lucia and then Gwen. Ashley followed them. She either came with them or died. Did she deserve to die? Yes.

  Steele snarled at the trashy blonde. His fingers dug into her shoulders and tears filled her eyes as she begged for mercy. He hated her. She had put his people through hell. She had put him through hell. Can I just let her die? Even the scum of the earth deserve judgment. Even the worst people deserve mercy. Can I live knowing I fed someone to these monsters?

  “Hurry up,” was all he could muster and he hoisted her up like a cheerleader by her hips. Mauser’s shaggy-haired face grinned down at Steele, followed by Kevin.

  “Give me your hand, you big tough son of a bitch,” Mauser said, shoving his hand at Steele.

  “Up ya go,” Kevin grunted. Steele locked forearms with his friends, a warrior’s embrace, forearm to forearm, and jumped up.

  As Mauser and Kevin pulled Steele up, he was surprised by a tight squeeze around his own waist. Heavy weight pulled him down and he slipped back inch by inch. Mauser’s grip strained, tightening on Steele’s arm. Steele’s head exploded with stars, the ground forcing the breath from his body.

  Steele covered his face as Puck’s huge fist slammed into the side of Steele’s head. Steele kept his arms in close to his head, trying to deflect the blows. The rain of punches was wild and slow, but dominating. If he connects, I’m done.

  Puck’s face had a dark ghostly delight as he struck downward. “You are the one,” he growled. “Thought we got rid of you.”

  He punched down into Steele’s elbow, causing pain to shoot into his shoulder.

  Steele was silent, using all his focus to keep a heavy blow from putting him out. He tried to thrust his hips upward to displace Puck’s weight, but Puck was a ton of rocks on his chest. Steele wrapped his arms around his bear-sized back, clinching in tight, but the man’s hand pushed Steele into the ground and wrapped around his neck, engulfing his throat. Gravel dug deep into the back of Steele’s skull. His ears beat as blood pounded in his veins. He danced around consciousness.

  “Steele,” people’s voices echoed around him.

  A figure staggered in from the side and jumped on Puck. Puck growled only long enough to remove a paw from Steele to shove the infected down. Steele struck his other arm with chops to the brachial nerve that ran along the shoulder into the neck. The grip loosened, and Steele scooted away from him as another infected crashed into Puck, and another. Steele coughed hysterically as oxygen entered his crushed throat. More freshly blooded infected pounced onto Puck.

  Steele jumped to his feet and ran for the mover. An infected lunged for him, bony fingers causing him to stumble. He kept his f
eet and jumped into Mauser’s waiting arms. The two friends collapsed on one another onto the mover floor.

  “I could kiss you, you big buffoon,” Steele said. One of Mauser’s cheeks was puffed up and the other was gaunt. He had the face of a prisoner.

  “Pucker up then,” Mauser said. Steele settled for helping his friend upright.

  “You used to be pretty,” Mauser said, inspecting Steele’s head wound. “But damn you are ugly now.”

  “I know.” He faced Gwen. “Are you okay?”

  Gwen held Lucia in a seat across from them and she nodded. Eddie sat, still shackled, his head in his hands. Kevin stood nearby.

  “Glad you made it here,” Steele said, reaching for Kevin’s hand.

  Kevin nodded furiously. “Me too.”

  Steele peered out the open doors of the mover at Puck’s demise. Infected pulled at him from every angle. It was like a pack of hounds bringing down a bear. Infected clung to him, tore at him, bit him and Puck howled as their teeth sank into his body. Steele snagged up his carbine. Mauser handed Steele a fresh mag. He slid it into place.

  Puck still fought madly, but now he bled from a dozen bite wounds on his body. He swung two infected together like he was banging two cymbals. Their heads smacked together, a mangled mess of bone and brain.

  Steele lined up his red dot sights on Puck’s forehead. The man swung wildly at the infected. There were just too many now and Puck sank to his knees. Infected took huge chunks from his arms and neck, his arms stretched out as if he were on a cross. Steele lowered the weapon and looked over his sights. Puck made eye contact with Steele, growling over the pain.

  “Kill meeee,” he screamed at Steele. Steele continued to look down at his enemy’s demise.

  “Kill him, Steele,” Kevin said from behind. He rested a hand on Steele’s back. “Please kill him, or hand me the gun,” he said softer. The pain in his voice cracked.

  Steele turned slightly to Kevin. Kevin had a pained expression on his face.

  “Kill me, now,” Puck called up, begging for mercy. A fat infected in a t-shirt joined the pile around Puck and took a massive bite from his scalp, ripping hair and flesh from his skull.

  “Shoot him, Steele,” Kevin’s voice rose in anger. “My brother deserves to die better than this.”

  Blood meandered down Puck’s face, his body shaking as the virus attacked his blood. Steele lined up the tiny red dot sight near the center of his broad head and pulled the trigger. Mercy or justice, I bear them both for they mean death, and death I wield with a heavy hand.

  KINNICK

  Pentagon, Arlington, VA

  Kinnick straightened the collar of his neutral-colored Army Combat Uniform. Bland greens, slate grays, and sand tans stretched over his torso, having been designed for urban, woodland, and desert combat situations. A universal pattern they call it. Better than the Airman Battle Dress uniform from the early 2000s. He laughed to himself. As long as it doesn’t snow.

  His uniform was on loan from the Department of Defense. It was unlikely that they would ever get this uniform back. He looked at himself in the mirror. His eyes had dark circles surrounding them. He looked like the walking dead, or the dead walking. Smear some blood on me and I could be them. He smiled grimly, straightening his shirt. No choice but to carry on, good soldier. He checked his watch. Dawn was breaking and his team should already be prepping. It was time.

  He ran a hand over his thigh-holstered Beretta 9mm. Hefting his pack, he walked down a corridor following a red line along the floor. Two heavy blast doors easily pushed open with their advanced hydraulic system and he stepped into the Pentagon courtyard.

  Soldiers scurried back and forth, preparing for his team’s departure. Two Sikorsky UH-60 Black Hawk helicopters sat perched in the center of the courtyard, like a noble pair of griffins resting. A small contingent of men who had flown in early that morning attended them. A minor testament to the remaining American military might. It was the best General Travis had left at his disposal.

  A greasy brown-bearded man swaggered over to where Kinnick surveyed the courtyard. He spit a wad of tobacco on the ground, running a hand over his long loose hair and pulling it to the back of his head.

  “You must be the full bird I’ve been waiting on, sir?” he said, referring to the nickname for Kinnick’s rank. He saluted Kinnick with a crisp hand, and Kinnick returned his salute.

  “That is correct, Master Sergeant. I am retired Colonel Kinnick United States Air Force, your CO for this operation.”

  “Pleased to meet you, sir. I am your 18Zed, Master Sergeant Hunter. ODA 51 ‘The Skins’ Detachment, Alpha Company, 3rd Battalion, 7th Special Forces Group.”

  The Green Beret looked like he hadn’t shaved in years, and the parts that a razor touched hadn’t been gone over in weeks. On his sleeve, he wore a patch of a skull wearing a wolf headdress with the numbers 51 along the bottom and “Skins” across the top. Hunter eyed him for a moment and shifted the chew in his mouth to the other cheek.

  “Pulled you out of retirement, huh?”

  “Not by choice. Some extenuating circumstances brought me here.”

  “Sir, Captain Duffy was reassigned so we could take you on. An unusual request. It’s not my place to question, but why are they assigning a retired Air Force colonel to this mission?” Hunter said.

  He is testing the waters to see what kind of commander you are. “Unique circumstances,” Kinnick said.

  Master Sergeant Hunter’s eyes were flat.

  “Were you briefed on the operation?” Kinnick asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I am the one with the most knowledge on this doctor. That, and there is no one left that’s expendable.”

  “I’m thinking that makes us lucky to have a full bird in charge.”

  “I’m not sure I would call it lucky,” Kinnick said. I haven’t led men in the field for years. Nor have I on solid ground.

  The operator spit brown juice in affirmation. “Was hoping you would help us out in the luck department. Luck hasn’t been on the menu of late.”

  Kinnick wasn’t excited about discussing the privileges of still being alive. “Where’d you fly you in from?” Kinnick asked.

  “Got dropped in all the way from Eglin Air Force Base, Florida.”

  “Long way from home,” he said.

  “That’s correct, sir, but when aren’t we,” Hunter said. He rolled a can of chewing tobacco out of his pocket and inserted another impressive chew.

  “How close are we to being ready?” Kinnick asked.

  Hunter turned back, surveying the helos. He nodded and wiped some chew from his upper lip.

  “The birds are fueled and loaded up. I have only half of my Operational Detachment here.” That meant Kinnick only had six SF “Snake Eaters” at his disposal. “Where is the other half of the Detachment?” Kinnick asked. Is it too much to ask for a full unit of these unconventional bastards?

  Master Sergeant Hunter’s voice went on auto-pilot. “We lost Byrnes to a legless Zulu near Eglin. Dallas Jr. and Lee were eaten alive while reestablishing a forward operating base outside of Raleigh. Jimenez, our 18 Delta Medic, suck-started his Sig. Malone, another medic, and Ward burned alive when an A-10 hit us danger close with a Hydra 70 rocket.”

  Kinnick held up his hand, indicating he had heard enough. Tough losses. Here I am asking where his men are and I should have assumed that they were dead.

  “I am sorry for your losses, Master Sergeant Hunter. This is a tough time.”

  The muscles on Master Sergeant Hunter’s face twitched. “We are too.”

  “Who do we have then? General Travis said my birds would be full.”

  Master Sergeant Hunter gave the men behind him a sideways look. He didn’t say anything for a moment, as if he was deciphering what was the best way to put something.

  Kinnick stared at him. “Be frank, Master Sergeant. I need to know what we are working with.”

  Hunter spit some chew on the ground, rubbing it
in with his foot. “Yes, sir. Follow me.”

  Master Sergeant Hunter brought him closer to the helicopters. The men formed a loose line in front of him for inspection.

  “We have the remaining Skins. Turmelle is the curly black-haired goon over there; he is a weapons sergeant. He prefers a blade, but he is just as adept with any firearm.”

  Turmelle twirled a Gurkha-styled hook blade in his hand. “Sins and Skins, sir,” he said with a cruel smile. He may be enjoying the apocalypse a bit too much.

  “The grizzly bear pretending to be a man is Lewis; he’s another 18 Bravo. He uses his SAW like an MP5 so we keep him around.”

  Lewis gave Kinnick a wide grin, throwing a M249 light machine gun onto his shoulders like it was a toy.

  Hunter continued, “The short stocky bastard is Gibson; he’s our communications sergeant. He doesn’t look like it, but he can beat any man here in a footrace. The half-Asian dude there is Hawkins, our intelligence sergeant who doubles as our combat medic now that our others are gone. How’s it looking for us, Hawk?”

  “Not good,” the part Asian man said, his mouth flat, features emotionless.

  “Our engineer is Esparza.” The Latino man pursed his lips at Kinnick as he loosely held a breaching shotgun in his hands. On his back, he had a pack and a short barrel M4; a heavy satchel rested on his hip.

  “The rest are a smattering of our Armed Forces. Fannin and Bowman are Devil Dogs, and the rest are staff from every branch.”

  The sixteen men looked at him expectantly. Aside from his Green Berets, bald or gray-haired men stood next to their gear. Men not far from Kinnick’s age. Men who hadn’t seen the field in a decade like himself. Men who had been fortunate enough to be in desk assignments inside the Pentagon when the virus struck, but warriors nonetheless.

  “No offense, sir.” Here comes the hurt. “Many of these men have seen their finest hour. I mean they were probably in their prime during Persian Gulf,” Hunter said, followed with a spit. “Persian Gulf One.”