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

by Greene, Daniel

  Thunder took his motorcycle into the field of battle, his honor guard of Red Stripes around him. Fat Half-Barrel sprayed buckshot with his sawed-off shotgun into a group of Chosen. They fell to the ground, crippled in pain. Garrett capped his handgun, aiming left and right across his handlebars, a wicked grin under his beard.

  They raced past the pastor’s men, shooting as they sped by. Some riders put their bikes down as Chosen bullets struck them, but they were few. The motorcycles split down the middle, encircling the Chosen. Chosen soldiers threw down their guns and tried to run for the trees.

  The pastor locked eyes with Steele. He wavered, turning around and watching his people be surrounded in horror. He knew now that his end was near. Steele coughed a bit and smiled.

  “You. You wretched devil. You planned this?” the pastor sputtered, anger creasing his aged features.

  Steele released Tess and bent down for his tomahawk. He felt every pellet in his leg. He felt his lifeblood leaking from his arm. His fingers wrapped around the oily gasoline and sand-covered shaft, making it slick with coarse grime.

  More of the pastor’s men threw down their guns and put their hands in the air. Steele hobbled forward. With each step Steele took, the pastor grew older. Steele placed the axe head of his tomahawk onto the pastor’s long crane of a neck. The pastor shifted his chin up and away from Steele’s blade.

  Steele looked up at him, making sure his eyes never left the pastor’s. “He’s a bit late, but my man showed when he had too.”

  The pastor’s mouth twisted and he spat on the ground. “Damnation is eternal for enemies of God.”

  “Let me know how that works out for you.”

  Around Steele, Thunder’s bikers disarmed the Chosen soldiers. Hundreds of bikers moved through them. Wild-eyed women. Braided-goateed men. Shiny bald heads. Long unkempt-haired women and men alike. All rough people sporting colors of different motorcycle clubs: black wolves, coiled steel snakes on a yellow background, playing card eights, skulls and gears, the reaper standing over a coffin, and seven naked women holding swords.

  Motorcycles rode down the retreating men that fled the field. A few gunshots were heard over the motorcycle engines, but the battle was over.

  Steele could only grin at the pastor. A shadowed man moved nearby. Steele yelled over at a confused Peter. “Let’s put those gas cans down. We don’t want you hurting yourself.” Peter’s face dropped as if Steele had physically beaten him again. Peter set down the gas cans, taking a step away, hands in the air. He lowered his eyes.

  The Red Stripes rolled close before cutting their engines and dismounting their motorcycles.

  “Thunder,” Steele yelled out. He removed his axe head from the pastor’s throat. The gray-bearded man swung his big belly off his chopper and adjusted his pants.

  “Steele,” he said, almost as if he were a proud father. A wide grin revealed his teeth underneath his thick beard. “Saw the lighthouse blazing from five miles out.”

  Steele limped forward, his hand still squeezing the hell out of his tomahawk.

  “Good,” Steele said. When he got close to Thunder, he punched Thunder square in the nose, knocking the old man back onto his ass. Half-Barrel put his sawed-off to the side of Steele’s skull.

  Thunder’s hand leapt out to his man. “Half-Barrel, no!” He lifted a hand to his nose, examining his own blood with a twist of his fingers. “I deserved that.”

  “You sure as hell did. You killed Steve. That wasn’t part of the deal,” Steele’s head felt like it had been stuffed with cotton. His legs felt weak like his muscles were leaving him.

  Thunder stood. “He tried to stop us. He was going to shoot us.”

  “That’s good training,” Steele said, breathing hard. His heart pounded in his chest. He collapsed, his body meeting the ground with a thud. The sky turned black above him.

  KINNICK

  Dunluce Pass, CO

  “Status?” Kinnick yelled into the mic of his radio as he ran. His face hardened as repeated gunfire echoed off the rocky slopes. Kinnick bounded right up against Stark’s Platoon. The men supported themselves against the barricade, waiting with nervous eyes. Stark gave him a fierce look over his shoulder.

  “Elwood? What’s your status?” Kinnick breathed.

  Kinnick stood tall in the pass behind his men. His breath came out shallow in his chest. His hands were slick on his M4 carbine. “Come on, Elwood,” he said under his breath.

  Gunfire boomed. High wails and deep moans bellowed from around the bend. Undead voices echoed up the road following the rocky slopes into the pass. All the voices blended into a single hell song that sucked the pure natural silence from the mountain pass.

  Within moments, the front ranks of the dead stepped forward as if they were part of an ancient undead phalanx of hoplites. Undead bodies tripped and fell as bullets zipped through them, spraying flesh and blood onto the concrete. They marched at a slow determined rate, letting their brethren be trampled where they fell with no regard for them.

  Fire blazed through the mountain trees where Elwood’s fire teams were set up in ambush above the road. The left flank of the undead horde withered under machine gun fire from the slope. The dead on the right flank were pushed off the mountain roadside, driven over the edge by the butchered bodies of their fellow infected.

  A minute raged and the fire team on the ridge made headway decimating the dead with fiery lead. Until the reload.

  “Fuck,” Kinnick swore. A private on the barricade firing line let his carbine go, firing.

  “Hold that fire, private,” Stark screamed at his man. The dead surged forward as the bullets ceased to hold them back. Hundreds pushed over each other, slipping over the slick blood spilt on the ground. Exposed intestines tangled around their legs brought them down, but they persisted, knowing nothing except death to all things living.

  “Colonel. Elwood. Position one.” A hard breath pushed into the mic. “Positions one and two are gone. Turner, Singer, and Montero are dead. There are too many.”

  “Keep those M240s going.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Moments later, the machine gun was up and running again. The infected twitched as bullets entered and exited their bodies. An infected was cut in half as he climbed the hill for Elwood’s fire teams. He continued to crawl until an M4 round through the skull stopped him.

  Kinnick’s master sergeant stood to the side letting off single rounds, dropping pack leaders with individual bullets. The horde surged forward ignoring bullets and the soldiers on the hill alike.

  “Don’t fire until you see the white of their eyes,” Hunter shouted, but it was too late. His voice was overcome by hot lead, as Stark’s Platoon unloaded into the horde. Claymores exploded farther down the hill.

  It’s too early Elwood. It’s too early.

  Kinnick let his radio drop to the dirt. He hefted his M4 carbine and joined his men on the line.

  “Hold this pass, goddamnit,” Kinnick screamed at them. He wasn’t sure they heard. He may have only said it to give himself courage. His M4 carbine’s bolt pumped in almost slow motion as the ejector flung out spent cartridges from his extraction port. Dropping his mag to the ground, he shoved a full one in its place, reloading. Bullets thudded into the bodies. He aimed high for their ugly curdled milk-colored eyes, ending their pitiful existence with every round fired.

  The heavy lead smell of spent cartridges and brass hung over them, enveloping them in a cloud polluting the mountain freshness. Gun smoke that surrounded them dissipated into the air, and tiny specks of white fluttered down, finding a way in the madness battle.

  “You got your snow,” Hunter shouted at him. He laughed a wild roar. He screamed at the top of his lungs. “Get some, boys.”

  Kinnick put out a hand, his fingers outstretched. A small, jaggedly individual sterling white snowflake rested gently on his hand. It stayed for a moment in his palm and then melted into a droplet of water. His eyes veered skyward.

  The litt
le flakes of white taunted him as they floated upon the bodies of the infected, most still moving, others trampled beneath their feet. If the snow had come a week ago, none of these men would have had to fight here. They only would have needed to sit and do a boring overwatch while letting Mother Nature do the work of blockading the passes.

  The dead pushed forward, not driven by courage or even fear. The need to murder every single one of Kinnick’s men is what kept them going. These undead monsters wanted only to feast upon their corpses. The unlucky ones would stand up again as infected blood raced through their veins, giving chase to the men that had been brothers only moments before.

  “Get those 203s going,” Hunter yelled.

  Multiple single shot M203A grenade launchers thumped 40mm grenades into the mass of bodies. Limbs exploded outward, splashing into pieces and red mush upon the rocks. The bodies piled up and no piece of road lay untouched by the dead.

  Stark’s Platoon gave up a worn-out cheer. Hands slapped backs. Smoke settled down on the road in a gray fog.

  “Stay alert,” Hunter said into the smoke. “Reload those mags,” he shouted. Men hurriedly complied, heads bobbing as they looked from their mags to the road. “You know these bastards will come again.” The sound of clinking bullets dominated the air. Raw fingers struggled to push down, mag springs fighting their tired fingers. They moved more from muscle memory than concentrated effort. Corporal Burbeck stared out, his eyes wide and unblinking, as his fingers shoved rounds into a magazine.

  Kinnick’s hand fell upon his radio. “Lieutenant Elwood, do you copy, over?” Kinnick said.

  Static buzzed. He gazed along over his remaining soldiers holding the pass. I could send a fire team up the left flanking slope. Split your little platoon into little pieces and then they will die in little pieces. What can you hold this with when they come again?

  “Lieutenant Elwood?” he said letting the mic depress. “Fuck me,” he said under his breath.

  “Get those boxes of 7-6-2 rounds up here,” Hunter yelled at two men from 2nd Platoon. They ran off looking for giant boxes of belted ammunition.

  The master sergeant turned to Kinnick. “Want me to run up there?”

  Kinnick eyed the slope. Forms came from the trees. One fell down the elevated slope.

  “Infected,” Hunter hissed. He fired six shots before they went down. “I think that last one was one of ours.”

  “I know,” Kinnick said. Write those men off for dead. We are the last.

  His radio buzzed. “Colonel,” a man whispered. Kinnick held the microphone up to his lips while he watched the ridge.

  “Lieutenant Elwood? Sitrep, over?”

  “We’ve been overrun. They butchered them. The ugly bastards didn’t even blink.” His voice shook, sobs coming through the radio.

  Kinnick eyed his master sergeant. “That little shit is laying down up there?” Hunter grabbed the mic from Kinnick’s hands. His beard touched his chest as he yelled. “Elwood, you stupid pussy. Die like a man or get your ass down the hill. You ain’t helping us right now.”

  “Yes. I…I…I’ll wait for them to pass. Yes.” Seconds ticked by as he rustled over the radio. “They’re eating Sergeant Putnam,” he sobbed.

  Kinnick grabbed the mic back from Hunter.

  “Soldier. Get your act together or you will die,” Kinnick ordered. A minute passed and screams permeated the hillside.

  Kinnick closed his eyes a moment. Hunter frowned, his eyes gliding to the top of the slope. A bloodied man stumbled down the slopes. Rock and gravel rolled in front of him, tumbling down the hill at his feet. His boots dug into the loose rocky soil for traction.

  “Will you look at that?” Hunter said.

  The man slipped and ran down the hillside, a slight hunch in his back.

  “Everyday I get surprised,” Kinnick responded.

  The man stumbled into the pass. His chest heaved, stretching in and out. Hunter raised his M4 to his shoulder.

  “Don’t shoot,” Elwood cried at them, holding up his bloodied hands.

  “You bit?” Hunter yelled.

  “Nah. No,” Elwood stuttered. His young eyes were clear and wide, no sign of infection.

  “Let him through, Master Sergeant,” Kinnick said. Elwood crawled over the barricade, taking refuge behind Stark’s Platoon. “You did what you could.” Kinnick’s brow creased. “No one else?”

  “I don’t know, sir,” Elwood said panting. “It was chaos. They were all over the slopes.”

  Kinnick patted the young lieutenant on the arm. His arm shook beneath Kinnick’s hands. “Master Sergeant, get this man a gun.”

  The master sergeant chucked an M4 carbine at the young officer. “Be a pleasure.”

  Elwood caught the M4, eying it as if it had sold him out in the past.

  “We need everyone in this fight. No time for anything else,” Kinnick said.

  Elwood’s wide camel-colored eyes blinked. He gulped and nodded his head once.

  “Here they come,” a private yelled from the front. Forms emerged from the mountain’s gun smoke haze. Both Kinnick and Elwood faced the threat.

  “The dead,” Kinnick whispered. With no machine guns hitting their flank, the horde came on uninhibited. With torn clothes and matted hair, dead gray-skinned infected came for them. They dragged their battered, maimed limbs behind them. Torn flesh flapped free like the wing of a lazy bird. They came for revenge against their camouflage-wearing foes.

  The undead ranks were so swollen that those on the right side of the horde were pushed off the edge. They fell soundlessly from the mountains, arms still stretched for Kinnick and his men.

  “Fire, fire,” Stark screamed at the men. His colder than ice eyes blazed as he yelled. Kinnick shouldered his carbine, letting it kick away at the crux of his armpit. He aimed at their heads, firing faster than he should. It seemed the only thing to do. Shoot as fast as he could at the mass of people. Unload everything they had. When they found Kinnick and his men later, they wouldn’t have a bullet left.

  Brains ejected backward as bullets entered their skulls, but their effort, even with the machine guns rattling away, did little to stop the mass of the undead. It was war, but there was no glory to be found in this battle of extermination. It was mere slaughter. During the minutes of heavy gunfire, the dead had forced themselves to within yards of the makeshift barricade. Guns blasted and no one could hear.

  In the madness, Hunter, standing near Kinnick, sprayed bullets into the dead. It was impossible to miss. Kinnick took a step back as infected men grasped Hunter’s gun over the barricade. Their hands slipped and their flesh burnt as they pulled at the barrel of his gun. Hunter wrestled his weapon away from them, getting closer to their grasping hands in the struggle. They were a stinking monstrosity of heads and arms and legs. One leapt forward, reaching for Hunter. It’s hooked and broken fingers plunged into Hunter’s face. He recoiled backward, holding his face. Blood oozed white and red between his fingers.

  Kinnick shot into the horde, pulling Hunter back by his tactical vest with his other hand.

  “Fallback point,” Kinnick yelled. He led Hunter back ten feet. His master sergeant bent at the waist trying to hold whatever was left of his eye in. Stark held the barricade. Throwing down his M4 to the ground, he snatched up an M240 from the hands of a disemboweled man. He held the weapon to his shoulder, and with the other hand, he let the linked ammunition drape over his arm. His gun ate the ammo fast as he unleashed it into the faces of the dead. His shoulder rocked in time with propulsion of bullets from the gun’s barrel.

  “Arrrrgggggh!” he yelled as he blasted into his foes. Hands grasped for him, tearing his combat uniform. Kinnick turned, still holding Hunter, shooting the undead off of Stark.

  “Fall back,” Kinnick screamed. Stark’s Platoon started to backpedal. Private Warren turned and ran for the pass, followed by Burbeck.

  The high-speed rattle of bullets stopped and Stark swam the M240 machine gun back and forth into the gory s
keletal faces of the infected. An infected man caught Stark’s arm in his mouth, tearing tissue free. Stark recoiled in horror. The infected stuffed Stark’s flesh into its mouth. Stark punched its face in, knocking it back into a thousand others. He went to punch them as well, and this time, their teeth clamped down and took the fingers off his hand. He held his hand up in front of his face, watching the blood spurt from his stumps. Other hands reached him and yanked the soldier over the barrier.

  The remainders of Stark’s Platoon broke at the fall of their leader.

  “To the rally point,” Kinnick shouted. His men ran. Those nearest the barricade were swarmed over. A private screamed as ten infected tore around his body armor, digging blackened hands into his neck in-between his collarbones.

  Blood pounded in Kinnick’s head as he ran. His heartbeat echoed in his eardrums as his feet struggled to run over the roadway. He chanced a glance over his shoulder. Hunter clapped his firing device together as he sprinted behind Kinnick. Clack. Clack. Clack. A moment later, claymores lining the pass exploded outward into the dead. Bodies crawling over the barricade were shredded in place, stacking them atop of one another. The barricade grew taller with the bodies of the infected.

  “That bought us a minute,” Hunter grunted from behind. They retreated for the rally point. The rough, rocky landscape gave way to a small round of trees on a tiny hill no more than twenty feet of elevation from the road.

  Kinnick’s legs burned with lactic acid. His arms screamed in exhaustion. Spent, scared men collapsed in the small grouping of trees.

  “Your eye,” Kinnick said.

  “I’ve seen worse,” Hunter returned. Blood continued to ooze between his fingers as he ripped open a trauma pack from his cargo pocket. He wrested out gauze and grunted as he stuffed it into his torn eye socket. Gauze ends stuck out of his eye like pink cotton candy.