“That does look like a lot of steps,” Kevin said. His eyes fluttered up the cliff as he counted.
Steele took a deep breath. “So you’re telling me, you would all rather risk fighting a whole pack of infected with the possibility of dying than walk up some damn steps?”
Kevin shrugged his shoulders. “Just saying. That’s a lot of steps.”
Steele gave him a snort of a laugh and a shake of his head.
“If you weren’t carrying so many bottles of booze in your bag, this wouldn’t be a problem.”
Kevin smiled. Mirth filled his half-open eyes. “You don’t seem to be complaining.”
Steele grinned. “I’m not one to complain about a drink at the end of a long day.”
“Hey, you guys. We don’t know it’s safe,” Gwen said. Her carbine was angled downward in a safe position, but her eyes continued to watch the cliff, untrusting of what might lie in wait above them.
“We don’t know what we don’t know. Eventually we are going to bunk in one of the houses. No better time than now,” Steele said.
“Fine,” she said, glaring at him as if she had let him win this time but wouldn’t the next.
Steele made for the red wooden steps at a jog, not looking behind him, knowing that one way or another they followed him.
KINNICK
Airborne somewhere over Illinois
Whop whop whop. Two helicopters’ rotors thudded as they raced one another across an angry sky. Clusters of gray clouds crowded above them, pushing on one another for space. Below them, patchwork fields of brown and yellow created the land quilt of rural Illinois. A wide chocolate brown snake curved over the land, crawling as far as Kinnick could see north and south. The Mighty Mississippi River. More like the Muddy Mississippi, he thought to himself. Wind cut through the open doors of the UH-60 Black Hawk that ferried his men to the United States Government’s last rally point in Colorado. Those were the last orders he had received from General Travis before the Pentagon was bulldozed under the dead.
Brown-bearded Special Forces Master Sergeant Hunter, his senior non-commissioned officer or 18Z, slept in the seat across from him. His beard crept down the front of his tactical gear like a neck protector, and he wore sunglasses that covered his sleeping eyes. His head leaned back against the helicopter wall with his mouth slightly open. If they weren’t in a helicopter, Kinnick was sure he would hear the man snoring. The M4 carbine, the shorter, lighter variant of the M16 assault rifle, leaned muzzle down, resting against his thigh between his legs. A gloved hand rested on the pistol grip, his index finger straightened out just above the trigger. He was still safely handling his weapon even when sleeping.
Next to him sat the elusive Center for Disease Control doctor, Joseph Jackowski. His shaggy brown hair swept low, almost into his eyes that were concealed by glasses with cracked lenses. The doctor had evaded them for over a week in the remains of Pittsburgh, Ohio, and Michigan. Kinnick’s squad had finally caught up with the squirrelly doctor on the lakeshore of Michigan. Now, Kinnick’s unit was a lot lighter than when they had first started. Almost half of his pieced together search and rescue unit were gone.
The doctor had brooded since they left Michigan, even as he studied Patient Zero from across the Black Hawk cabin. His eyes blinked rapidly, taking in every breath, twitch, and movement of Patient Zero.
Patient Zero mumbled something unintelligible through his gag.
Special Forces Weapons Sergeant Turmelle hit Patient Zero with his shoulder. “Shut up, Jody.” He gestured to the defeated man with his head. “Jesus, this guy is such a fucking pussy.”
Patient Zero hung his head in defeat, revealing his sparsely haired bald head.
Kinnick’s men called Patient Zero a Jody, in reference to the military man’s civilian nemesis featured in military cadence calls. Jody was medically unfit, not squared away, or brave. In military lore, a Jody actively worked against the men by stealing their girls and living a luxurious life while the servicemen fought. For Kinnick’s men, Patient Zero fit the bill on everything they despised. While they had been serving their country, Patient Zero, a pathetic, infected, out-of-shape man, had destroyed their world.
When Patient Zero was coherent, he went by Richard Thompson. The man had only had one relapse since they were airborne. His body writhed and he launched himself violently at Kinnick’s men. A relapse was an ugly thing, dangerous all the time and potentially deadly while in the air.
Green socks stuck out from underneath the duct tape covering Patient Zero’s mouth. His men had been generous with their application of the tape. Whatever little hair Patient Zero did have would be gone when they ripped it off. His hands were gray-taped nubs, the tape wound so many times around that no part of his hands was exposed. He was seat-belted in tight as possible. He wore an extra harness clipped to the side of the helicopter in case he decided he was tired of this world and wanted to throw himself out, plummeting to the ground. Kinnick was pretty sure by the sorry look of him, he didn’t have it in him to do the job right.
Turmelle nudged Hawkins, sitting next to him. The half-Asian intelligence sergeant’s face was stoic as stone.
“What’s the matter, Hawk? Jody’s got your tongue.” Turmelle snickered at his own joke.
Hawkins didn’t take the bait but blinked acknowledgment. “No,” he said.
Turmelle shook his black curly-haired head in irritation, staring at Patient Zero. “What?” Turmelle yelled at Patient Zero, pumping his head at him. Patient Zero flinched and looked downward. Satisfied with his level of intimidation, Turmelle leaned back with a smirk. His hand stroked his kukri. The wicked knife at his hip was enough to make Kinnick nervous that Turmelle might use it on the infected man.
Kinnick’s radio clicked on in his headset. “Colonel Kinnick, we’re getting low on fuel. I believe it would be prudent to set down in Hacklebarney. There’s a small airfield there,” the pilot said.
“Hackle-what?”
“Hacklebarney, sir. A small airfield in Iowa.”
“There’s an airfield around here?” Kinnick said. He leaned to the side, looking at the rectangles of brown farmland below.
“Yes, and they’re responding to our radio chatter.”
“There are people down there?” Kinnick leaned forward toward the cockpit. “Here I was thinking we were in flyover country. Put me through.” The radio crackled and went silent.
“Hiya, this is HAK. Grady here,” came a rural accent, not a drawl like the south and no elongated vowels of the northern Midwest. They stretched their sentences enough to let you know they weren’t from the city and sounded off on their O’s a bit so you knew they were from the Midwest.
Kinnick smiled. Now this is a down-home country boy.
“This is Colonel Kinnick, United States Air Force.”
Hunter perked up in front of him, visibly snorting himself awake. He swatted at Turmelle’s knee with his hand.
Hunter yelled over the rotors. “You sure you’re still in the Air Force, boss?” A deadly smile carved out his lips.
Turmelle yelled his way. “We were thinking about adopting you, sir. You know, make you an official Snake Eater. Get you a Skins patch made.” His eyes closed to almost slits as he smiled fiercely.
“You know. If you’ll take us,” Hunter said like a wolf trying to be sweet.
“Later,” Kinnick said, covering his microphone.
Grady spoke over the line. “Flyboy, huh. I was a Marine Corps Crew Chief ’78 to ’86. I see your birds on radar here. Been awhile since we heard from any of you fellas.”
Kinnick shook his head in disbelief. Cannot believe these guys are still operating.
“You think you can help out a couple of squads of knuckle-draggers with a refuel?”
Grady’s laugh on the other end eventually turned into a cough. “Things must be really messed up if they are putting an Air Force full bird colonel in charge of a bunch of baboon bootlickin’ grunts. Come on down. All I got left is Jet A-1 fuel.�
�� Jet A-1 was a civil aviation fuel, but it would work in the many military aircraft that preferred the Jet Propellent or JP-8 because of its anti-corrosion and anti-icing additives.
“That’ll have to do. See you in five mikes.” Clicking a button on the side of his headset, he switched channels. “Put down in Hacklebarney.” He turned to his men. “Everyone get ready to put down. We don’t know what’s going on down there, so prepare for infected or otherwise.”
Hunter addressed his unit. “You heard the colonel. Get ready to be in and out like a swabbie on shore leave.”
Turmelle grinned, nudging Hawkins. “Faster than Hawkins at prom.”
Hawkins’s face was flat. Turmelle shoved him with his shoulder again. Hawkins brown eyes stayed even. One eyelid twitched. Turmelle held his hands up. “Alright, Hawk. I’ll lay off. Geez, no need to get so defensive.”
His men checked the status of their weapons. They patted down their vests, making sure their magazines were fully loaded and easily accessible.
Turmelle turned to Kinnick. “Sir, you think a bunch of farmers are going to try and jump us?” He finished with a laugh. “Good luck.”
“A bunch of farmers took it to the invincible British in 1776.”
Hunter and Turmelle smirked and shook their heads.
“But this is home field,” Turmelle said.
“For who?” Kinnick said.
Both of his men shut their mouths.
“Whatever you say, Colonel,” Turmelle finished. He looked back out the helicopter at the fast-approaching airfield.
***
Kinnick’s soldiers spread out from the helicopters led by the Special Forces soldiers. The men knew the drill. The infected were everywhere. No place was safe. The living were sparse but dangerous. It was hard to tell what was the greater threat: man or the infected.
Each soldier covered a different sector, guns pointed outward. Three hundred and sixty degrees around each helicopter was covered by the remnants of Kinnick’s unit.
The single-gated airport had only a lone runway, just long enough for a single propeller plane. A man hobbled out from a low one-story brick building.
A dusty mellow orange Allis Chalmers hat perched atop the man’s head as if it were only resting there. He used a free hand to hold the hat on top of his head. His overalls were covered in grease stains and a mishmash of dried grime. The older man’s eyes crinkled around the edges as he stepped up to Kinnick.
“Welcome to the Hacklebarney Municipal Airport. Name’s Grady.” Grady gave Kinnick a lazy salute. Tired of wrestling with his hat that didn’t want to stay put, he removed it from his head. He held it in front of himself, thumbs creasing its worn bill.
Kinnick scanned the perimeter. No infected lined the chain-link fence surrounding the airfield. Good sign. The farther inland they went, fewer signs that the infected had conquered were there. It’s only a matter of time before they come here as well.
Kinnick returned the older veteran’s salute with a crisp hand to his forehead. Saluting still felt awkward, even after his volunteer non-official reenlistment from retirement.
“Good to see this facility up and operational,” Kinnick said.
Grady scratched some white stubble on his chin, thinking about his words.
“The single-engine Cessna planes ain’t flying no more. Been almost two months since we seen ’em, on account of the plague. None came back from Chicago or St. Louis. But I’m sure you boys seen enough of that.” He gestured with his stubbly chin at Kinnick’s men. “You can tell ’em to relax. None a’ the sick ones are ’round here. Sheriff Donnellson seen ta dat.”
“Hunter, take Turmelle and check the building.” The operator whistled through his brown beard at the other magazine-clad soldier, and they jogged off inside the brick building.
“Hawkins, you’re on zero duty.” The half-Asian intelligence sergeant’s eyebrow twitched, the only indication that he was unhappy with his new tasking. He pointed his M4 carbine downward, taking an outward position next to the helicopter near Dr. Jackowski and the arguably more important Patient Zero.
“Can we get some fuel? We still have a long way to go.”
“Ah, of course. Where abouts you boys headed?”
“West.” Kinnick gave eastward a glance over his shoulder as if he knew evil lurked on the horizon.
Grady’s brow furrowed. Worry deepened his creases.
Kinnick turned back and Grady glanced at him as if he expected Kinnick to give him an explanation.
“We’re in a hurry. Our mission is vital to national security,” Kinnick said. He didn’t want to be terse with the man assisting them, but lingering was not an option.
Grady nodded and turned away. He limped over and grabbed a yellow hose dragging it near to one of the helos.
Kinnick pointed. “It goes over there.”
Grady wheezed a laugh. “Ain’t my first rodeo, Colonel. I’ll get you boys back on your way. Always happy to help our fighting men and women.” He snapped the hose into the UH-60 Black Hawk. Grady looked over the helicopter. His hand found a string of quarter-sized bullet holes lining the fuselage.
“Looks like your bird took some pretty heavy rounds out there. Reminds me of Grenada.” Grady looked back at Kinnick. The man knew they were facing a heavily armed foe. Grady’s eyes danced to the other soldiers and then stopped back on Kinnick, apparently satisfied that Kinnick and his men were real soldiers and not imposters. “What’s going on out there? Don’t get much info since they stopped the news broadcasts.” His eyes were uneasy about the things that were taking place all around him.
Kinnick gulped down dryness in his throat. Do I give this man hope? He rubbed his brow. Do I tell him the East Coast has collapsed? Do I tell him the fuel he is giving us may give us hope that the doctor sitting in that helicopter can make it back to Cheyenne Mountain with Patient Zero?
“It’s complicated.”
“Figured as much. You boys at least dishing it out to the bastards?” The infected army grew, and the only boundaries were those left breathing in the United States.
Our army dwindles to a handful of battered souls as we speak. “The infection spreads very fast, but we’re still in the fight,” was all Kinnick could muster.
Grady eyed him, gray eyes weighing the truthfulness of his words. The old crew chief gave him a knowing nod. “Sometimes all we can do is pray.” He patted the side of the helicopter. “Got plenty of jet fuel here. I can keep your boys flying for awhile. Provided things don’t get too ugly down here.”
“We thank you for your help, but we must continue west.”
Grady pulled himself upright using the helicopter. He picked his hat up and scratched his head. “Seems like the fight would be the other way.”
“The fight is everywhere,” Kinnick said.
Grady nodded, eyes scanning the skyline. Kinnick didn’t know if the man realized that he was on the frontier of a breaking world.
“Looks like a storm is a brewin’ to the east.” Grady covered his eyes as if to block the impeded sun. “Better get the other bird topped off,” he said with a nod. He hustled over, unhooking the hose and dragging it over to the other helicopter.
The sky blackened. Black birds flapped their wings in the distance as if they fled the storm. Or they go to where the fresh bodies are. Wind picked up on the tarmac, ruffling Kinnick’s uniform. A storm is coming, and we aren’t ready.
GWEN
Coast of Lake Michigan
Alternating white and blue bathroom tiles reflected her sorry face. Pulling her pants up, she fumbled with the buttons of her military ACUs in the dark. Her mind raced. She moved toward the sink, hands finally fastening her pants. She swatted blindly for the toilet in an attempt to flush it. Nothing happened when she found the handle. She jiggled it until she remembered the toilet had been devoid of all water. It was just instinct at this point to continue to try and use modern luxuries such as indoor plumbing.
She looked up in the mirror. A ghost s
tared back at her, illuminated only by the moon that shone through the second-floor window. She locked her hands on the counter, leaning toward her rough image. Beneath her puffy eyes, a large red spot jutted out from her chin. Acne now? Really? Am I in junior high?
Exhaling loudly, she stared at a mellow pink stick about five inches long. Her hands never wanted to leave their safe place on the counter edge to pick up the dreaded object. She shook her head at herself. You have to know. You have to.
She snatched the stick up and waved it in front of her body as if fanning herself with it. Her heart beat furiously in her chest. This can’t be happening. She looked at the stick impatiently. The clear plastic encapsulated diagnosis screen lay void of its impending verdict.
Her mind scattered in a dozen directions as she waved the stick. What will I do? Where will I go? It won’t be. I can’t be. She laughed nervously out loud. “Don’t be silly.”
Guilty eyes stared back at her, blaming her, in the mirror lined with big round bulbs along its edges. Glancing at the stick again, she saw that it still revealed nothing of her impending fate.
“Come on,” she said. Her impatience grew with every second of not knowing.
Pacing, she wiped sweat from her brow. Jesus Christ. Her stomach had been queasy for weeks. She couldn’t touch her breasts without wincing in pain, and they were noticeably larger despite her restricted diet. She had been hiding it from the others, but after the incident at the beach, they must be suspicious. Her head pounded and her skin became slick in a cold sweat.
“Goddamn it,” she swore. Bile rose in her throat for the second time since they’d been in the lake house for the night. Puke spilled into the empty toilet, splashing up onto the sides. Ripping a soft yellow towel embroidered with blue sailboats from the rack, she dotted her mouth with it.
The stick lay on the counter, a poison viper waiting to strike her if only she looked at it.
“Really. You are just going to stare at it?” she said to herself. Clenching her jaw, she snatched up the evil little stick.
The End Time Saga Box Set [Books 1-3] Page 75