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

by Greene, Daniel

  “It’s a bust. We are going to put them all down.”

  Joseph ran for the compression chamber. 3-7-1. Beep-beep, beep. He mashed in the code and the door slid open.

  “Come on,” Joseph yelled. Rodgers and Coyle ran inside the chamber and the doors closed. A loud thud sounded on the door.

  A bloody biohazard face-shield stared back at them. Chunks of flesh still stuck to the plastic. Connor pounded the glass with an open palm, his eyes white as chalk. He was joined by an infected Tyler.

  The chamber on the other side opened.

  “Come on,” Joseph said. They stepped cautiously into the other side. Soldiers charged into the room, all guns pointed at them. They all put their hands up. Blood dripped down their bodies and ran off of Joseph’s suit. Byrnes followed the soldiers inside.

  “You can stand down. We were prepared for this. These men are under strict observation until we can sort this out. Mack, take your squad and put the infected down. Hudson, get these men out of here.” Black-clad soldiers stacked on the compression chamber.

  Joseph unzipped his biohazard suit and removed his earpiece. “Those two look good,” he said to Byrnes.

  Byrnes eyed the young men, wet with blood and chilled by the sterile cold, holding themselves for warmth.

  “They should have already shown signs of infection,” Joseph said.

  “Let’s observe them for twenty-four hours before we jump to any conclusions. I am optimistic, Doctor. We may have created a vaccine for this thing,” Byrnes said. He gave Joseph the only smile Joseph had seen him give yet. “We will revisit the issue after twenty-four hours. Hudson, I want these two in holding cells. No regular rooms like Weinroth.” The word “Weinroth” stung Joseph. “If they turn, they will be confined in the least destructive place possible.”

  “Great.” I should feel grateful and happy that we did it, but I feel dirty. Yet his mind drifted to the men he had just experimented on like mere lab rats.

  “Go, go, go,” a soldier shouted in the background. The soldiers disappeared inside the lab and gunfire popped off.

  “Let’s go,” Hudson said. Hudson pushed Joseph in front of him and the group of nine filed into the hallway, the test subjects in the middle. Boots quickly trod the sterile white floor along with the bare feet of the remaining subjects. Down two corridors they walked until they reached a steel-doored elevator.

  “The holding cells are down three levels,” Hudson said.

  “It would be easier to study them here,” Joseph said.

  “We do as the colonel orders,” Hudson said. The reflective doors opened. The group squeezed into the elevator. Guns jabbed every which way. Gear stuck out from their vests. The soldiers pressed close to one another and their charges.

  “All I know is that it’s as deep as we can go,” Hudson said and pressed a button at the bottom of the control panel. The doors rolled shut and the elevator dropped, beginning its descent and sending Joseph’s gut lurching. Men shuffled. Boots shifted. Vests creaked and slings groaned.

  After twenty seconds, there came a cry. “Oww,” someone groaned from the center of the group. Heads turned on shoulders, but there wasn’t enough room for people to turn. Joseph, surrounded by the group of large soldiers, couldn’t see anything

  “Ah. My stomach.”

  “Quiet over there.” Hudson pushed the bottom button again. It glowed a pale yellow, muffled by the sheer number of people in the elevator. “Wish this thing was faster,” he said with a side eye to Joseph.

  “There’s something wrong with him,” came Rodgers’s voice. Joseph could catch glimpses of Rodgers’s closely shaved head swiveling back and forth in concern for his fellow soldier. “You’re a doctor, do something,” he said loudly in Joseph’s direction.

  “Ahhhh,” Coyle yelled. He tottered, swinging his head wildly. Shoulders pressed into others.

  “What’s wrong with him?” yelled one soldier.

  “Somebody get hands on,” screamed another.

  Elbows drove the subjects back into the other soldiers.

  “He’s turning,” Joseph screeched, but he was drowned out by the other men.

  Coyle sunk his teeth into the face of the man next to him. They were so close that it was only a matter of stretching his neck. Guns were twisted. Pinned in-between bodies, legs, and torsos, every soldier flagged the others.

  “Grab him,” someone called out.

  A round went off, causing a deafening explosion in the small enclosure. A soldier fell into the others, gripping his knee. Gear-clad men crushed Joseph into the corner as they tried to get away from the infected. Men screamed as they were mauled. Bodies smashed into one another, and the air felt like it was being sucked out of the small confined space. Gun smoke filled the elevator. Warm liquid spurted into the air and onto the walls as blood was freed from their greedy bodies.

  “Shoot him,” screamed Hudson. He was pinned on top of Joseph, his arm trapped in the air, still holding his sidearm. With the blood, it was hard to tell friend from foe as the soldiers struggled with one another.

  Joseph did the only thing he could do. He inched his trapped hand to the control panel. His whole body was being crushed into the wall by Hudson’s back. Hudson’s head spun back and forth as he wrestled with one of his men. Crimson blood had doused everyone. Joseph couldn’t tell who was alive or dead. Joseph smashed his finger on the panel and pressed the only other button not lit. Soldiers screamed. The elevator announced its arrival. Ding-ding.

  The doors rolled open and the mass of bodies collapsed onto the floor. Guns clanked. Bodies thudded. Joseph crashed onto the floor. Men slid on the ground.

  The clicking of computer keyboards stopped. Civilians and unarmed military personnel looked up from their screens. A man stood, mouth agape, headset over his ear. A woman wearing glasses peeked over her cubicle like a prairie dog. Joseph crawled away from the mass of bodies writhing in mortal combat on all fours.

  “Infected,” shouted a man. People screamed as the newly infected pushed themselves upright, newfound fresh victims awaiting their bite.

  STEELE

  Little Sable Point, MI

  The midday sun did nothing to warm him. The wind off Lake Michigan pierced his clothes like stinging bees. The sun shone down, failing its most primal task of warming the Earth as if it too had forsaken them. He paced behind the cold dead vehicles, his mind unable to rest.

  The pastor had murdered his mother. Now he was coming to murder the men and women of Little Sable Point and indoctrinate their children into his corrupt church. Steele tugged at his beard as he paced, working himself up. What kind of son am I? She needed my help and I was off gallivanting the world instead of protecting her from that monster. His mind blamed him. You wanted to make peace with the man. He spit on the ground, glancing up at the flames pouring from the top of the lighthouse.

  He had kept the fire lit inside the tower as a taunt to the pastor.

  Kevin watched him.

  “Steele. I was thinking about that speech.” Steele passed him, marching back and forth.

  “What about it?”

  “You could do some FDR. Nothing to fear but fear itself.”

  Steele passed him again, going the other way. His M4 was slung across his body. “Nah, too cliché.”

  “Or Patrick Henry, give me liberty or give me death,” Kevin said, waiting to see if Steele would bite.

  Hand on his carbine, he passed by again. “Fitting but too hostile.”

  “Churchill?”

  Steele stopped in front of Kevin. “How about some whiskey instead?”

  “I can help you there,” Kevin said, handing up a bottle of the honey-colored liquid. Steele took a pull, long and hard. He wiped the extra with the back of his hand. The booze burned down inside his belly. Lack of food made him feel the effects of the alcohol almost immediately.

  He looked out on the field, soon to be a field of bloody misery and mournful wails of the dying. Grass stuck up in clumps for a hundred yards
, mixed in with sandy clay. After the sandy field, a line of trees stood for about a half mile to the main road. A smaller two-lane road went from the lighthouse parking lot, cutting through the forest.

  He glanced at the men and women that sat near the cars whispering to one another in nervous anticipation. Even if they won this contest, many of them would die, and he would be responsible for their deaths. My list will grow longer today, but what choice do I have?

  “Tess, want some?” Steele said. The liquid sloshed as he waved it in her direction.

  She held out her hand, taking the bottle. She took a big swig and handed it back to Kevin. Kevin handed it to old Bengy, and the Korean war vet looked at the bottle.

  “Haven’t drank in thirty years, but who wants to be sober for this anyway,” Bengy said, looking at the bottle with some apprehension. He held the bottle to his lips, tipping it back toward the sky. He looked at the bottle. “Damn, I miss the stuff,” his voice sounded gravelly after the alcohol.

  Tess looked out at the line of trees. “You think they forgot about us?” she said.

  Steele watched the concealing trees. “No. They’re coming. I assure you the pastor does not forget easily. And I’m sure he won’t be happy about us taunting him with the lighthouse.”

  Tess glanced up at the lighthouse. “That used to be a beacon for the refugees. Now it is a call to war.” She turned back to Steele. “Let the bastards come. I’d love to send a few rounds their way,” she said with an air of confidence that Steele did not have.

  He stared at this fiery black-haired woman. “Anyone excited for war has never experienced anything but peace.”

  ***

  An hour passed in uneasy silence while the people of Little Sable Point waited. A few piled sand up around the cars, trying to harden their position, until shouting came from the heavens.

  “Steele! Steele!” Margie shouted from the lighthouse. She leaned over the edge waving at him. Her fist pumped toward the trees in front of them three times like a referee.

  “Hold your fire until you get the signal,” Steele shouted, looking out. He hoped it would be enough. It had to be enough.

  Steele hoisted himself up on the hood of a pickup.

  “People of Little Sable Point.” He waited as all his people’s eyes looked up at him. “This is our hour of greatest need. You stand on the front line of a battle, not only for survival but for your very freedom. The pastor’s army of fanatics comes to force you under a yoke of tyranny. He wishes to make you slaves to his religion, your lives only purpose to worship him.” All eyes were upon him, people silent in contemplation. “It’s better to die a thousand deaths than to live for one second in servility to these people.” He pointed out as the first of the pastor’s convoy emerged from the trees. “I do not shy away from this battle. I embrace it.” He held his carbine in the air. The people of Little Sable Point let out a ragged, if timid, yell.

  “Nice speech,” Kevin said up to him.

  His friend helped Steele down. “We need it. You have to fight for something,” Steele returned, hoisting his M4 carbine to his shoulder.

  The pastor’s men in pickups slowed down, swerving around stranded vehicles. Steele pumped his fist at Jason above and Gregor down the line. Gregor climbed on top of a camper before laying down prone. Steele turned to the left side, pumping his fist up and down. Larry and Hank did the same.

  A car sat about seventy-five yards out, an old clunker that his crew had pushed out in neutral.

  “Don’t fire until they are past the tan Honda,” he shouted at the people around him. They looked nervously down their sights. I will be lucky if they hit the ground. We only need to last long enough. His eyes rose to the sky momentarily. Long enough for a divine intervention.

  Two pickup trucks pulled out onto the stretch of land between the forest and the vehicle-encircled, red-brick lighthouse. Men held on in the pickup beds, their guns pointing outward. Only two?

  His attention quickly returned to the road when the high-pitched whine of a diesel engine caught his ears. A semi without the trailer barreled into view, a hulking heavy hitter of the trucking world.

  It was followed by the crunch of metal as it smashed through obstacles knocking them left and right. Steele lined up his red dot optic on the driver. I should take him now. Instead, he watched as the semi took on the two vehicles blocking its path like an offensive tackle driving them backward. The back vehicle rolled on its side and flipped end over end. It was enough.

  Blockade free, the convoy of the Chosen drove onto the sandy field pickup after pickup. An old yellow school bus eventually stopped and men ran out, taking their places among the trees. They lined the area between the forest and Steele’s few entrenched defenders. Minutes ticked away from each of their remaining lifespans as the pastor’s men filled in the gaps. Too many guns pointed in Steele’s direction. More men leapt from trucks, taking up firing positions. They spread out, wrapping around the flanks of Sable Point in a horseshoe of metal and flesh. Did I make a mistake by not lighting them up on the road? Should we even have planned our defense around the lighthouse?

  A final black, relatively clean SUV rolled behind the others. It stopped near the center of the newly made line. Steele pointed his gun in that direction, letting his optic do the work. A tall gaunt man exited the rear passenger side door. He was dressed in black, a hammer hanging from his belt.

  “I see the pastor has made an appearance,” Steele said to Kevin.

  Kevin leaned over the hood of the pickup, looking down the barrel of his M4 carbine. “So this is the guy who’s been causing us all these troubles. Seems a bit old to be bothering us, don’t cha think?” Kevin said, his foot tapping the sand about a thousand times a minute.

  Steele peered down his line. His men and women looked around, not knowing if they belonged in the fight. They internally debated if they could still run and make it.

  “Steady now,” Steele yelled out. He was cut short by the electronic, megaphoned voice of the pastor.

  “People of Little Sable Point.”

  Steele’s eyes narrowed. That’s my line.

  “We’re here because a certain man claiming to be your leader has led you astray. He leads you with half-truths and lies. He desires only power for himself.”

  Steele felt the eyes of his followers fall upon him, considering the pastor’s words. Will they hand me over and be done with it?

  “You needn’t worry where your next meal comes from. You needn’t worry about those infected by Satan’s Legion. You needn’t fear at all. Look at all my men. My community can provide all these things for you. Food. Shelter. Safety. Salvation.”

  The uneasiness from Steele’s followers laid heavy upon them. He could feel their eyes upon him. What would stop one of them from putting a bullet in me and ending the resistance? Nothing. Steele took a moment to covertly scan his surroundings.

  “Why do you all so badly want to die? Has there not been enough death already? I only ask that you accept Christ as your savior and join us.”

  Voices murmured back and forth. He could hear their voices.

  “It can’t be that bad.”

  “It’s better than dying.”

  “We’ll finally be safe.”

  He didn’t know who said what and it didn’t matter. Fear was driving them. Fear and the hope that somebody would figure everything out for them. I must help them see.

  Steele called out from his vantage. “Don’t you see this man has a serpent’s tongue? He murdered my mother when she wouldn’t join him. I watched him murder Pagan. The pastor would rather burn Pagan alive than trade him back to us. By God, he’s no saint. He’s a monster. He promises you safety but at the price of your freedom. He promises you food so you will worship him as a demigod. He gives you shelter in exchange for your soul for he knows no God but himself. Don’t let him fool you. He offers you only chains. Americans don’t wear chains.”

  The few remaining in Little Sable stayed in their place. They quie
ted down. Steele exhaled.

  “That could have gone bad,” Kevin said.

  “You weren’t considering switching sides?” Steele said.

  “Some food and shelter does sound nice.”

  “I won’t stop you,” Steele said, watching the man out of the corner of his eye. It was not lost on Steele that he had killed Kevin’s brother. Did it matter that Kevin had hated Puck’s guts? Kin was kin.

  Kevin shook his head. “No. No. I prefer a good book to subservience.”

  “Glad to hear it,” Steele said under his breath.

  The pastor’s voice boomed. “I give any man or woman a pardon to join me now. Before this gets ugly.”

  Steele peered down his ragged line, the remnants of a community forced into action. His people looked scared, but their backs were to the wall, and the only way out was to fight like the devil through the pastor and his followers.

  Steele brought his attention back to Kevin. “I’m thinking we should get this thing started before anyone gets lured in by his poison apple. Care to do the honors?”

  Steele dug in his cargo pocket, revealing a rectangular green remote detonator also known as a clacker. When the green remote was squeezed, it depressed the black button and detonated the explosives.

  Steele passed the detonator to Kevin.

  Kevin’s hand trembled as he took the device. “I…Wow. I never thought I would be the one to lead an attack.” His long face showed all his nerves. He held the green remote in his hand, palm open, afraid to close his fingers around it as if the device itself could blow him up.

  “Here, take this,” Tess chimed in, handing the bottle of whiskey to Kevin. He grabbed it with one hand, took a long swig of booze, and handed it back, his eyes never leaving the detonator.

  “Press here?” Kevin asked pointing at the device.

  “Squeeze that puppy until it goes boom,” Steele said.

  “What say you, people of Little Sable Point? You have ten seconds to make up your mind. Hand over the scoundrel and be done with this madness,” the pastor bellowed.

  Kevin motioned for Tess to give him the whiskey back.