Bracco finished binding Skye’s arm with gauze and gave her back her rifle, pack and gear. Then he headed down to the coach seating area.
“Burke,” the captain said, “take a post back at the far rear door where we made entry. I don’t want anything else boarding this train.”
“Don’t bother checking luggage,” Skye said. “I’ll bet this thing has a dining car.”
The captain stared at her and shook his head slowly as Burke went below. Cribbs gave her a deep scowl.
“Come on,” said Skye, hefting the tomahawk and giving them that bloody, madwoman grin. “Let’s keep going. I’m ready.”
Sallinger pointed a finger at her. “You will stand down, Dennison.” Then he pointed at a swivel chair, one that didn’t have a nearly decapitated corpse slumped in it. “Have a seat.”
Burke stepped over the bodies crumpled in the passage of the sleeper car, his boots slipping on the greasy fluids leaking out of corpses. His small flashlight showed streaks of blood and gore on the walls and windows in stark black and white, macabre patterns left by Skye’s passage earlier. Opened up as they were, the dead smelled worse than ever.
He was relieved to be alone back here in the sleeper car, away from his friends. They wouldn’t be able to see the shaken look on his face, or how his hands were trembling. By the end of last summer the young soldier had already reconciled himself with the fact that he would never see his beloved Wyoming again, never talk to his mom and dad or younger brother. He’d accepted that the world he’d known was nothing but a vast graveyard and would never be the same again. And he’d been around death before, overseas when the Humvee ahead of him in a column had hit an IED and disintegrated in a blast of fire and black smoke, killing five of his friends in an instant. Burke had seen enough, and was young enough to realize – especially in his profession – that death was an inevitability. It was something a Ranger acknowledged and moved past so he could do his job.
But the kid, the bite…
The sight of that slavering, hungry child zombie, so eager to feed on him, was a horror he knew he’d never get out of his head. He could still feel the small hands grabbing at him, pulling on his arm. And then the bite. He’d never told his teammates, his brothers, just how terrified he was to turn into one of those things. Not until he’d babbled something at the Top while the older man was inspecting his arm, and now he wasn’t even sure what he’d said. Had he been sobbing? God, he hoped not. He couldn’t take it if the other guys thought he was some kind of coward.
Burke leaned against a wall, his body shaking. His first hand-to-hand encounter with the walking dead and he had been bitten. It didn’t matter that the dead boy’s teeth hadn’t broken the skin. They almost did, and what would happen next time? In this world, there would always be a next time.
The beam from his flashlight wavered in his hand, and he gripped it tightly, squeezing his eyes shut. He didn’t want to be here, wanted to go home, wanted his mom and for this nightmare to just go away so everything could be normal again.
Burke blew out a long breath, opening his eyes and telling himself to man-up. He wished he could be more like the girl upstairs in the other car. She didn’t give a shit about anyone or anything, and wore that hardness like armor. Another long, steadying breath. He would try that, just try to be dead inside so nothing could scare him.
His breath hung like a pale cloud in the air, and he realized it was a great deal colder in here than it had been. His flashlight beam probed the hallway, reaching the back of the car where they had entered.
The door was standing open.
Sanchez squatted in the snow beside the railroad tracks, concealed up to the elbows. His head and his lube shop coveralls were hidden beneath layers of white that the wind blew away, only to be replaced in the heavy downfall. His teeth clicked and fingers flexed repetitively, eyes focused on the long object fifty yards away,
The torn and stripped-away flesh of his face, where Red had bitten him repeatedly and brought on the transformation from mindless corpse to Hobgoblin, was ringed by ugly, weeping gray blisters, the fluids freezing against his dead skin..
For Sanchez, the world was a wild cacophony of sights, smells and sound, and his quickly developing brain was filled with the constant, bright red flashes of firing synapses. The Hobgoblin saw everything around him in reds and grays, the driving snow a curtain of fast-moving black specks. Despite the storm, he could see the…the…train…yes, that’s what it was. A collection of blurred, half-remembered images came at him. The train. And there was man-meat inside. He’d watched them go in. His teeth clicked again and his body shuddered, fingers curling into claws. The urge to inflict pain and death made it difficult to sit still.
The others were here too, four of them a hundred yards away downhill, nearly invisible as they hid in the snow and watched the train. They were upwind of Sanchez and couldn’t smell him, didn’t know he was there, but their scent came to him in a way that was almost visible, each giving off their own unique odor.
Sanchez had been following these scents ever since awakening in this amazing, powerful new form, loping through the winter forest in pursuit, wildlife scattering at his approach. Though his hunger was a maddening thing, the Hobgoblin had no interest in the small animals around him; his only desire was to reach the pack. Especially the female. He was drawn to her.
But he was distracted by anxiety. Would they have him? The Alpha, the one with red…hair…had attacked him, hurled him away from the others. But he’d been different then, and was now like them, and at last he’d caught up to the pack. He’d been about to go down the hill and make his approach, instinctively knowing that he would have to show deference to the Alpha, demonstrate that he accepted her dominance. Joining the pack was all that mattered.
Then things changed.
A shift in the wind brought him the powerful aroma of man-meat, and he’d spotted them gathered at the back of the train, just down the tracks from where he’d been crouching. Their smell made his brain fire more rapidly, images of blood and feeding overwhelming all else. The man-meat went inside, and Sanchez shivered, muscles tensing. Instincts he didn’t understand commanded him to wait, to watch, but it was so very difficult.
Flashes behind the frosted windows then, accompanied by muffled cracks of…of…gunfire.
Sanchez waited as long as he could, teeth chattering with nervous energy, and then he could stand it no more. With an explosion of white he burst from cover and raced down the tracks toward the train, bounding through the deep snow, head lowered and eyes fixed on the closed door at the back of the last passenger car in line.
Red caught the movement, as did the others, and the entire pack tensed, letting out a low growl. The Alpha was on all fours in an instant, her leg, back and arm muscles bulging, teeth bared as the savage wind whipped long, red hair about her face.
The strange Hobgoblin was nearly to the train, and she caught its scent at last, a new odor but oddly familiar in a way she couldn’t understand. She let out a piercing screech, the sound immediately lost in the storm. How dare this creature force its way into her hunt, try to take her kill! After all her careful stalking, all the control she and the others had exerted, resisting the all-consuming urge to race shrieking into the midst of the humans to maim and destroy, this interloper was going to startle the prey.
The intruder reached the train, tore open the rear door and disappeared inside.
Crouched next to Red, Ghoul was also on all fours, straining forward as if to run, as were the other two. All of them were darting looks between her and the train, trembling, making high, sharp croaking noises and gnashing their teeth. The challenge was clear; would she permit them to attack, or would she allow this intruding Hobgoblin to steal their kill? Red shook with rage. She wanted to lash out, to savage Ghoul and claw out his eyes, open his skull and shred whatever she found inside. She wanted to show the others that this was her pack, and she would not be challenged.
Could she destroy
Ghoul? Yes, she decided, but not without sustaining her own, possibly crippling wounds. And if she did, if she forced them to hold back, killed one of their own and allowed another to hunt their prey, how long would the others remain submissive?
Cross and Snapper made a whining, growling noise.
Ghoul let out a low, guttural snarl and glared at her.
Red leaped, not at her pack but out into the storm, plunging through the deepening snow and racing into the wind, headed for the train. The pack followed as a single, murderous entity.
Burke’s flashlight beam was on the open door, the light catching heavy flakes swirling through the air and creating a white drift on the floor. How had he not seen that it was open? Because it’s as dark outside as it is in here. Hadn’t someone closed it after they came in? He was almost certain of it. And with the rest of the squad behind him in the next car, that meant he wasn’t alone in here.
The soldier held his breath and panned his light along the corridor. Open doorways to sleeping compartments down one side, dark, silent rectangles. He turned and put the light behind him. More of the same. Burke was at the center of the passenger car’s length, with no radio. A shout might alert the squad – if they heard it – but it would surely alert whatever was in here with him. He gripped the squad automatic weapon tightly and started moving back, taking slow steps on the toes of his boots.
The fluids of slaughtered zombies, now freezing in the open air, crunched underfoot.
Burke approached each sleeping compartment the same way; turning so he could see the corridor peripherally in both directions, aiming the flashlight beam and muzzle of the SAW together at the doorway, making a quick check to ensure the room was empty and then sliding past. Clear…clear…clear… almost to the door that would take him back to the squad. Clear…clear…
A red-skinned horror stood in the next doorway, malevolent eyes blazing just inches away. Burke saw coveralls dark with old bloodstains, and caught a name patch reading SANCHEZ just as the thing grabbed him by the head and squealed.
Burke screamed, triggering an automatic burst of 5.56mm into its midsection as the Hobgoblin squeezed his head, let out a shriek and dragged him into the blackness of the sleeping compartment.
The Rangers froze at the ungodly sound. Upstairs on the observation deck, Sallinger, Cribbs and Skye bolted for the stairs. Below, Rooker and Bracco spun toward the opposite end of the car, down where Moore was positioned. All lights went to that door.
The young, black PFC pointed his M4 at the door. “Burke?” he shouted.
Boots pounded down the stairs from above.
“Burke? Talk to me!”
The door burst open and a nightmare lunged through, covered in fresh blood, hunched over with raised hands. It let out a deafening screech.
Moore screamed and fired a three-round burst that stitched across its chest, shattering a collarbone. Then it was on him, a crimson fury of gouging fingers and snapping teeth, throwing him to the floor. Moore screamed again, fighting to push it off, hearing the others shouting his name and rushing forward, but unable to look away from that once-human face, covered in horrific wounds and gray blisters, now twisted into a visage of hate. He tried to keep the rifle between them, to keep the teeth away, but it was so strong.
There was a crunch of bone, and Moore howled.
“Fucker!” shouted Sallinger, leaping down from the nearby stairs. He shoved his nine-millimeter pistol into the Hobgoblin’s ear and blasted brain matter across upholstered seats. The creature collapsed, and Corporal Bracco dragged the limp creature off his teammate at once. Master Sergeant Cribbs vaulted through the open door between the cars, shouting Burke’s name. Rooker followed, rifle raised.
Moore was on the floor, trying to curl into a fetal position, clutching one bloody hand in the other, crying, “I’m bit! I’m bit!” His glove had been torn away, revealing ripped flesh.
“Oscar, sitrep!” the captain shouted through the door. When there was no immediate answer, he pointed at Bracco. “Back them up!”
The big corporal leaped over his fallen companion and rushed in after the other two soldiers. Still on the stairs, Skye aimed her battle rifle at the opening, index finger resting on the trigger. If anything red came through that door, it was going to die.
“Let me see it,” said Sallinger. Moore shook his head and held onto the wounded hand. “Let me see it,” the captain ordered again, pulling at the wrist. Reluctantly, Moore surrendered.
When Lee Sallinger was ten-years-old, his older brother David had been bitten on the hand by a neighbor’s dog, a pit bull and mastiff mixed-breed monster. The wound had been savage, a mass of torn flesh, several bones broken under the crushing pressure of the animal’s jaws. This looked like that. Beneath the shredded remains of a Nomex glove the hand was flattened and red, blood soaking into the sleeve of Moore’s jacket, broken fingers jutting at crooked angles.
“We’ll wrap it, give you something for the pain. You’ll be fine.” The captain’s face couldn’t sell the lie, and Moore pulled his hand back, closing his eyes as the tears flowed harder, not only at the pain but at what was to come.
“Coming in!” Cribbs’ raspy voice shouted from the next car. Skye kept the battle rifle trained at head level. The master sergeant appeared, his ashy face strained. In his hands was the gunner’s SAW and spare ammo.
Sallinger stood. “Status?” He already knew the answer.
Cribbs looked at the wounded man on the floor, then at his officer. “Burke is dead.” He didn’t mention that the soldier’s head had been torn completely from his body and shoved onto a coat hook on the back of the compartment door, or that the face had been so bitten as to be unrecognizable. “It came in through the rear door. We searched all the compartments, all empty. Rooker and Bracco are keeping the car secured.”
Wordlessly, Skye moved past the men and up the aisle toward the door leading to the third car. She knelt and shouldered the SCAR, aiming the muzzle at the small glass window set in the door, the access point between the squad and the unsearched balance of the train.
Sallinger glanced at Moore, who was no longer crying, only moaning and rocking on the floor. Then he moved close to his friend. “Oscar, see what you can do to make him comfortable. We’re here for the night.”
The master sergeant nodded and knelt beside the wounded PFC, speaking softly and pulling out his medical kit. Sallinger stepped over to the red-skinned monster on the floor, crouching and rolling it onto its back. He stared into the dead, ghastly face, at a mouth frozen open in a howl, heavy lids drooping over black eyes.
Sallinger covered his mouth with a gloved hand and whispered, “Hobgoblin.”
The pack circled the train throughout the night, dark and restless shapes in the storm. Although it had been her original intention, Red would not permit them to go in after the prey. The others accepted this, whether from some understanding of the situation (the prey was on alert and more dangerous than ever) or simply out of fear at what disobeying her would bring. Either reason suited the Alpha.
The intruder had been destroyed, of this she was certain. The absence of screaming and gunfire, followed by lights and moving shadows behind the frosted windows told her that at least some of the humans had survived, and after the attack they would be ready and impossible to ambush. She wouldn’t know how many remained until they left their shelter and started moving again, as she knew they eventually would. This human pack kept on the move, just like her own.
Cross, the child Hobgoblin with the missing face, found a way into the train farther down the line of cars, and Red permitted her - communicated through a series of warning growls - to approach the humans but not be seen, not to attack. The dead girl with skin the color of brick and ropy muscle beneath, still wearing the tattered remains of a Catholic school uniform, crept through several passenger cars filled with shifting corpses, moving undisturbed among them as they watched this odd creature with blank stares and cocked heads. A few followed her in their l
azy, shuffling gait, but most did not.
The small Hobgoblin reached the space where the third and second cars were linked, a cold, dark place surrounded by an accordion structure of fabric and a steel floor underfoot. She hunched next to the inner door, pressing the side of her mutilated face against the cold metal. She scented deeply, catching the faint odor of the human female just on the other side.
So close.
Within arm’s reach.
Close enough to bite.
How simple it would be to open the door, catch the female by the throat. A swift bite followed by the splash of sweet, hot blood…
Suddenly from behind her, Red grabbed a fistful of Cross’s hair and jerked her away, forcing her to come back outside with the others. They would wait. The Alpha was still learning, and had learned a great deal from the interloping Hobgoblin’s clumsy, failed attack. She and the others would have to be clever, patient. And she was feeling a change in her body she didn’t understand, not just within the crackling of her brain and the pressures at the tips of her fingers and across her scalp, but something new in her back, her muscles and now her mouth.
She needed to curl up for a while, surrender to the blackness. To let her body do as it would.
She would be clever. She would wait.
SIXTEEN
The observation car rocked as the storm beat at it, the night sliding past 1:00 AM. Master Sergeant Cribbs was on watch, alone in the last car, sitting on the cold floor with Burke’s SAW and a flashlight pointed at the single rear door. In the second car, Rooker and Bracco were stretched out in the reclining seats, snoring. They would have to stand their own watches soon enough.
At the opposite end, next to the door leading to the third car, Skye and Captain Sallinger sat in seats facing one another across the aisle, a flashlight standing on its end on the floor and throwing a circle of light on the ceiling, plunging the rest of the car into blue shadows. One of them should have been sleeping while the other watched the door, but despite the day’s exertions and horrors, sleep remained elusive. Several rows back, PFC Moore was huddled in his own seat, wrapped in a blanket and tossing fitfully in a feverish, morphine sleep.
Omega Days (Book 5): The Feral Road Page 15