“We have to plug the gap,” Mauser shouted at the him. They met in the middle, each covering front threats as they moved. The flaming-red-haired sergeant’s name tag read Yates. He rattled off a succession of shots.
“Kemosabe. Fancy seeing you here,” Mauser said.
“Agreed,” Sergeant Yates said. His four soldiers along with Mauser’s one formed a tight circle of guns outward and they shot their way to the top of a blood slick barricade.
Mauser’s SCAR-H felt like it weighed one hundred pounds. The weariness of weeks of fighting without end, combined with his captivity, exhausted him. His muscles ached as if he were in an extreme endurance competition. He lined up his sights on a staggering infected wearing filthy ACUs. He squeezed the trigger. The body stumbled onto its face and lay still on the pavement.
A slew of bodies covered the walkway, and the top of the wall looked like they were at Rorke’s Drift. Mauser gaped at the scene below and it took every ounce of his resolve to not turn and run. Ugly disgusting decaying faces stared up at him. Hundreds, no, thousands of heads with those stupid dead fucking eyes.
They encircled the outside of the base, stretching down the mountaintop road surrounded by single family homes. A sea of maggots pressed into the barricade. But the thousands of infected marching up the hill were the least of his concerns. It was the pile of bodies littering the ground below that made him gasp.
The dead had unknowingly provided their own ramp of flesh and bone to enter the compound; it had been built on the backs, heads, and torsos of their slain brothers and sisters. As the bodies piled up, the dead added to the pile, making it larger and larger until the dead could reach over the walls.
Hands reached for him and he stuck the stock of his SCAR into the face of an infected man. Snapping his rifle back into a firing position, the distance was so close he hardly aimed at all.
He squeezed the trigger every time an infected poked its ugly head up over the pile. Time and time again. The bodies collapsed before him, crumpled into heaps of dead flesh. It was all muscle memory now. In the distance, Yates yelled at his men to move, and Mauser stood his ground. None would pass. He was a machine repeating the only process he knew. Destruction of the dead. Squeeze trigger. Find head. Squeeze trigger. Scan. Acquire. Fire. Destroy them all.
The SCAR trumpeted its crusade against the dead and Mauser wielded the Heavy with the practiced efficiency of an old-time band fiddler. His song was sharp, loud, and staccato, a single snare drum on overdrive. The tune boomed away as if he played his last encore.
As more infected made it over the wall, his song sped up and it became a numbers game, with a crescendo of bullets and masterful handling of his instrument. But the Titanic was still going down. The equation was simple. How many bullets could he put downrange accurately versus how many of the dead could make it over the wall. The skill and wanton fury of his long gun did not matter against his faceless foe. Every second they lost ground.
“We gotta run,” Sergeant Yates shouted into his ear. He was the only one left. The experienced military man had seen the writing on the wall.
“No, we must hold them,” Mauser shouted back.
“We’re not the Light Brigade. If you want to exist in the next thirty seconds, come with me.” Yates grabbed him by the back of his collar. “Don’t waste yourself here.”
The dead crowned all along the top of the wall, using their dead comrades as a ladder to get inside the base. Mauser let his SCAR dip down.
“Come on,” Yates yelled.
Mauser sprinted for the other side of the base, ankle screaming in pain that only the chemicals in his body allowed him to ignore. They only made it halfway before he noticed it, throbbing below him.
They ran for the artillery guns on the far side of the base. The artillery guns; something was different about them. They were in the same position, but something had changed. Black-holed barrels pointed in his direction.
“Get down,” Yates screamed, pushing him to the ground.
Mauser’s face and shoulder dug painfully into the concrete, and his SCAR that had fought so valiantly in his hands clattered to the pavement like an abused lover. The Howitzers thundered forth, Apollo loosing his deadly arrows in a fiery barrage that deafened his ears. His bloodied hands covered them, but it did little to stop the ringing. Concrete and rubble rained down from above as the once-protective wall exploded, pieces going airborne.
KINNICK
Mount Eden Emergency Operations Facility Bunker, VA
The squad stepped out into a flickering hallway, guns bristling in every direction. Bloody handprints streaked down the wall. The victim was nowhere to be found. Not a good sign for finding anyone alive down here.
The team moved into a stack, choosing to hang to the right side of the hallway, but not completely against the wall as they cleared. Bullets tend to travel down walls, and it was instinct to avoid such situations. Lewis took the rear position and Fannin took point, attention centered at the end of the corridor.
Their mounted flashlights flicked up and down as they scanned for threats. Military boots clicked on hard floors, splashing through puddles of blood and squishing through remains alike. The team was too focused on outward threats. As long as the footing provided a good shooting platform, they didn’t care. Portraits of Presidents looked down approvingly at the bodies of the slain. The team halted at double doors.
Fannin flashed a light on a sign above the door.
“Studio.”
“Let’s clear it. Don’t just shoot anything that moves. We need live doctors,” Kinnick reminded the men. Pollard snorted and the men exchanged looks like Kinnick was trying to get them killed.
Fannin rested his hand on the flat door handle gently, attempting to discern whether it was locked or unlocked. The straight handle sank lower and lower and the door creaked open. With bursts of speed, the team surged inside.
The team moved quietly through a television studio. Old camera equipment was angled at a podium with the blue and white Seal of the President of the United States of America. Empty brown stackable chairs rested beyond the cameras. Kinnick found this especially creepy, even more so because he only recalled hearing a single message from the President since the White House had been evacuated. General Travis hadn’t said he was in this facility, but this bunker would serve as one of his emergency evacuation points. He was supposed to be in the NORAD facility in the Cheyenne Mountain Complex of Colorado.
Not his priority. For the tenth time, Kinnick adjusted his grip on his weapon. His sweaty palms found little traction on the fore-grip handle and stock of his short M4 carbine.
Finding no one living, they moved through open doors down an adjacent hallway. He didn’t have enough men to keep the rooms secure, so when they went through the next time they would have to breach it as if they had never been inside. Infuriating, time-consuming and deadly if they needed to escape on the double.
“Esparza, mark the wall on our way out,” Master Sergeant Hunter commanded. Esparza took a spray paint can and put an orange X on the wall near the doorway.
“Just like high school, huh?” Sergeant Lewis laughed.
“Fuck you, you big redneck. At least mi madre had all her teeth,” Esparza growled.
Lewis grunted and stated matter-of-factly, “Not true, Esparza. My mother had at least three teeth.”
“Alright men, let’s keep it together,” Kinnick reminded them.
They cleared out a large dormitory filled with bunk beds piled up on top of one another. Signs of violence were everywhere.
“Jesus, some of them were sleeping when they were attacked,” Sergeant Pollard said.
White sheets were defiled with dried black blood.
“Everyone, heads on a swivel,” Master Sergeant Hunter commanded.
“It’s too quiet,” Bowman whispered, his tactical light scanning some disheveled bunks.
“Where are the bodies?” Sergeant Pollard mumbled. His light scanned the corners of the room.
There was more and more blood as they neared the end of a hallway. The floor was covered in it. Footprints dotted the streaks. Some of the prints were bare, while others were shoed. Movement caught Kinnick’s eye.
The darkness seemed to wiggle, but they could hear the infected. The shuffling and brushing of shoulders and clothes. Their voices moaning their eternal struggle, and the slapping of open palms on the door.
The infected bunched together at the far end of the corridor. Crowding the door, they beat at it with hands and broken bodies. Flashlights soon found them and they turned around, glaring at the team with curdled-milk eyes uninhibited by the bright tactical lights.
“Bring ’em down,” Kinnick commanded, raising his carbine eye level and finding his sights.
The squad unloaded into the infected that marched their way. Gunshots echoed loudly and Kinnick was happy that he wore ear protection. Smoke hung thick in the hall. Bodies layered the floor.
They stacked up on the door, nuts to butts. With a gloved fist, Fannin pounded on the door. “U.S. Military, open up.”
Master Sergeant Hunter gave Esparza a nod. Esparza took his breach shotgun to the hinges of the door. Boom. Boom. Esparza took a step to the side. A second later Pollard knocked the door in with a heavy boot.
The team rushed in, taking the occupants by surprise. Flashlights swung wildly.
“Bitch,” Fannin cursed. He shoved down an older man in a lab coat and shook his hand out to the side. “That piece of shit cut me,” Fannin shouted. His other hand held his carbine in the old man’s face.
“Clear,” Master Sergeant Hunter shouted from his corner facing the center.
“Clear,” Sergeant Lewis added, covering from his corner. The team quickly cleared the large space, looking for stragglers or hidden threats.
Computers lined the wall, screens black. Microscopes, air-tight lined spaces, and test tubes sat atop counters. A series of white operating tables lay barren … except for one.
“Hold, Fannin. We need him alive. How bad is it?” Kinnick shouted, joining the veteran Marine.
“I’m fine. I’ll get Hawkins to look at it topside,” Fannin said. He shook his hand, blood running down his fingertips onto the floor.
They gathered three people into the corner of the medical lab; two females and one elderly male.
Two bodies hung upside down in the corner. They looked as if they had been skinned alive. Another body was strapped to a laboratory table, and it strained against its bonds.
“Master Sergeant Hunter, dispose of the infected,” Kinnick called out. He approached the three occupants.
“Scratch one Zulu,” Hunter said, strolling for the tied-up infected.
The lab was a mess. Not just the bodies, but food containers, medical supplies, and clothes lay strewn about. This looks more like the lair of a mad scientist than the savior of mankind. He stood tall in front of the captives.
“What happened here?” Kinnick said.
The old mustached man in the lab coat rocked back and forth in a trance and mumbled like a village idiot.
“Savior of Humanity. Yes. Yes. That is my name. Savior of Mankind. God’s work. God’s work,” he said.
Kinnick made eye contact with Sergeant Lewis, who shook his head. This man was insane. Kinnick pulled the old man up by his lab coat. It looked more like a butcher’s apron. His name tag read Dr. Williams. Dr. Williams, not Dr. Jackowski. Wrong fucking doctor.
“Are you Dr. Williams?”
The white-haired doctor didn’t respond, but only stared far off past Kinnick. A moment passed, then the old man looked up at Kinnick as if he had only just seen him for the first time, a sparkle in his eyes. “No. I am the Savior.”
Kinnick loosened his grip. “Do you know where Dr. Jackowski is?”
The old doctor’s eyes peered out through Kinnick. “Yes, I knew him. He’s over there,” he said gesturing at the skinned bodies.
Kinnick gave him a look of disgust and released him onto the ground. “Lewis, check out those bodies,” he commanded, eying the deranged doctor.
Master Sergeant Hunter joined him. “He’s bat shit crazy.”
“What else would you have me do? He is the only bastard alive in here wearing a lab coat.”
“He could have found the coat,” Master Sergeant Hunter said.
“He could be the fucking janitor, but we have to figure it out,” Kinnick said.
Sergeant Lewis took hold of the scalp of one of the bodies, holding the face up alongside the photo.
“Eh, it’s hard to tell, sir. Maybe if he still had his eyes. But I don’t think it’s him. If we had one of the biometric readers that we use in Afghanistan this wouldn’t be a problem,” he said.
There is no way that was the other doctor, but how can I know for sure?
“You.” Kinnick pointed at a worn-out-looking woman in filthy blue scrubs. “Who are you? Who are those men?” He pointed to the hanging bodies. “Do you know this man?” Kinnick shoved a picture of Dr. Jackowski into the disheveled woman’s face.
She shook, skinny legs crossed. “Yeah. I vaguely remember him. He used to work down here with Dr. Williams, the Savior of the human race.”
Kinnick grimaced. Another damaged soul. When will this war give instead of take? War never gives.
“Do you know where he is?”
She shook her head. The other woman looked up. “Only the redeemed will walk the earth again,” she uttered, her mouth barely moving.
“Dr. Williams, do you have any idea how to stop the virus?”
Dr. Williams smiled, mustache twitching. “Of course, I have the cure. Come. Come.” He stood up, waving at Kinnick.
Dr. Williams led Kinnick and Master Sergeant Hunter over to where the infected patient lay strapped to the table. Dr. Williams didn’t seem concerned that Master Sergeant Hunter had knifed the bastard only moments before.
“You see. You see. We have to keep feeding them, then when there is no one left to feed they will stop.”
“Thank you, Doctor, you can take a seat with your friends.”
Kinnick motioned Master Sergeant Hunter closer. “These people are mad, or traumatized, but who knows, given a safe place maybe Dr. Williams could snap out of it.”
“Sir, with all due respect. Civilians are not a priority or secondary priority on this mission,” Master Sergeant Hunter said.
“I know that, Master Sergeant. When we reach the surface, radio to the Pentagon we have survivors at Mount Eden. Maybe when we get some relief they can help them,” Kinnick said. A fucking long shot. But someone had to survive this apocalypse.
The grizzled master sergeant nodded. Dead end.
“You can come with us,” Kinnick said to the three mad people.
“No. No. No. We will stay here,” Dr. Williams said. The women rocked back and forth, hands wrapped around their knees.
“We will take you out.”
“Get out of here you fool! You can’t hear them? Even now they come,” Dr. Williams shouted. His mustache shifted in anger. Dr. Williams tried to shoo them out of his lab. Kinnick’s men scaled back out into the hall leaving Kinnick behind them.
“Good luck, Doctor,” he responded.
The mad doctor laughed.
It was time to leave the government’s tomb, but now they had no leads, nowhere to go, and no time.
GWEN
Quarantine Base Rattlesnake, Pittsburgh, PA
Steele led her hand in hand through the dead-filled camp. The gunfire had dissipated, but the carnage was complete. Blown-apart bodies of both formerly dead and living alike were strewn about, as if a child had been careless with its toys. Mauser followed closely behind like a crippled shadow.
They reached the sand-colored mess hall tent and Mark pushed his way inside. The inside was empty except for tables and chairs.
Steele wore bandages around his head and his eyes were open wide like those of a committed patient. “Stay here,” he demanded.
Mauser stood beh
ind him, rifle slung downward. Not one bit of him was clean. It was as if he had decided to bath in blood and dust like a modern day Ares, God of War.
“Don’t speak to me like that. I am your partner, not some sort of minion,” Gwen stated. She turned to Mauser. He’s older; maybe somebody has taught him some manners. “Ben. What’s happening out there?”
Mauser stared at her as if no words came from her lips. He cupped an ear. “Wha—?” he yelled at her.
Steele put a hand on his shoulder and a finger to his lips, and Mauser shrugged his shoulders.
Steele turned back to Gwen, his demeanor a bit calmer. “He can’t hear you. He’s basically deaf,” he said on their friend’s behalf.
“Am I yelling?” Mauser yelled at them.
“Yes. Be quiet,” Steele said, holding a finger to his lips. Then he turned to Gwen. “I don’t have time to explain, but stay here. The camp isn’t safe.”
“All the more reason I should come with you.”
His mouth curled as if she brought him great pain.
“The soldiers, the dead, all of it is unsafe. Stay here. I’ll be back.” He rushed from the tent in a hurry.
Mauser smiled at her and followed behind Steele.
There is no way I am just going to sit here while he plays superhero. He is such a mule. She poked her head from the tent and watched him and Mauser march off.
A number of men and women in camouflage stacked their fallen brethren in a line outside the medical tent. Two soldiers set down a cot next to the line of the dead and went back inside. She wandered down the lane, dodging debris and soldiers alike.
It was like a god had kicked their base like a child an anthill. A squad of soldiers raced past her to where the front gate used to be. The walls had crumbled to a pile of rubble under the barrage of the artillery. Arms, legs, and broken bodies stuck out of the rubble. Four soldiers set up a temporary machine gun nest facing down the road. Gunfire snapped off further down the road. The base wasn’t safe anymore.
A Humvee drove past her and stopped. Soldiers loaded supplies into the back. Men shouted to one another, and a big transport truck joined the growing convoy.
The End Time Saga Box Set [Books 1-3] Page 55