The Tide (Book 5): Iron Wind

by Anthony J Melchiorri

  “Maybe?” Samantha shrugged and then tapped on her keyboard. Another image popped up onscreen. It was a zigzag of lines connecting what looked to be half the cities in the world. “I know you don’t like my techno jargon, so I’ll simplify it.” She clicked another button, and most of the lines disappeared. “I’ve been tracing communications related to suspected sites behind the Oni Agent. Watch this shit.”

  A thick line connected Langley to Baghdad. Another line traced from Baghdad to a location deep in the jungles of the Democratic Republic of Congo.

  “That’s militia-controlled territory,” Dom said, pointing to the map of Africa. “Trying to cross those borders even before the outbreak was a death wish. Do you have a visual?”

  “I wish,” Samantha said. “Satellite imagery isn’t very helpful. All we get are treetops. In Baghdad, however, we can see this.”

  She pulled up an image of sand-colored buildings and streets filled with people. There were canvas awnings and vehicles crawling between pedestrians.

  “What am I looking at?” Dom said.

  “I can’t say for certain, but not too long ago, Iraq, Syria, Russia, and Iran created a joint information center, or JIC. It was supposed to serve as a base to cooperatively manage missions against ISIS militants.”

  “This is where you think the messages to Meredith and Lawson originated?”

  “Yep,” Samantha said, leaning back in her chair.

  Dom pointed to the location in the Congo. “So what’s this all about?”

  “To be honest, I’m not certain,” Samantha said. “It was difficult enough for me to track the JIC down, and I’m still trying to see if I can decrypt any of the individual messages that were sent from the information center to other locations. So far, no luck.” She used her mouse to circle a small town near the Congo River. “But for whatever reason, the JIC kept in constant communication with these guys. Spooky, right?”

  “Never heard of much ISIS activity in the jungle,” Dom said. “We always suspected the IBSL on the oil rig wasn’t the only location where the Oni Agent was being researched. Think this is their headquarters?”

  Chao shrugged, spreading his hands. “The only thing we really know is that the JIC was probably interfering with international intelligence agencies and laying the false flags that got so many people killed or indicted. At best, we’ve found a tenuous connection to the Oni Agent.”

  “Tenuous is better than nothing,” Dom said. “We could use this information to get on Lawson and Kinsey’s good side again.” He studied the map, his eyes tracing back and forth between Baghdad and the Congo. The war-torn capital of Iraq would likely be full of Skulls by now. The African nation could hold all manner of surprises, too, between surviving militias and soldiers-turned-Skulls. Entering a hostile landscape full of unknown threats was hardly ideal. But one of those places might hold the key to solving the Oni Agent outbreak.

  Both choices came with enormous risk to him and the Hunters. But while they floated in the Atlantic, licking their wounds, the last survivors in the US and elsewhere were being hunted by Skulls. With the Phoenix Compound under development and intelligence accumulating on the masterminds behind the Oni Agent, humanity might finally have a chance, but not if the crew of the Huntress remained sidelined. They needed to be back in action.

  Dom had a decision to make.

  “Chao, Samantha, notify the crew that we set sail in an hour,” Dom said. “Send the charts you showed me to the pilothouse.”

  “You got it,” Samantha said.

  Dom rushed up the ladders to the pilothouse with Meredith close behind him. Maps of Iraq and the Democratic Republic of the Congo were already glowing on the electronic display. “So, Captain,” Meredith said, her eyes gleaming. “Where to first?”

  -1-

  Somewhere in Virginia

  The high-pitched warbling of chickadees and sparrows contrasted sharply with the low, gurgling moans of the Skulls. The monsters lumbered along the highway between the charred husks of vans and SUVs, bumping into each other and the cars lethargically then moving on like the slowest and most dangerous game of pinball the world had ever seen. Each Skull showed signs of prolonged Oni Agent exposure, including the crooked talons that clicked against asphalt and bony spikes jutting from their vertebrae. Bone plates rustled, echoing on the air like the sounds of an undead army going to war. The creatures’ slow, shuffling movements were due to starvation—a sure sign all the easy prey had already succumbed to their tearing claws and gleaming fangs.

  But that didn’t make them any less dangerous.

  Amid the monsters lurked a single Goliath crunching over smaller Skulls that dared to get in its way. Its shadow rolled across the highway like a mountain blotting out the sun, and every step it took rattled the shards of broken glass and singed metal scattered about the road. A Skull wearing the remains of a tattered navy business suit—the standard uniform of Washington politicos and nine-to-five office slaves alike–bumped into the Goliath’s leg, and the giant swatted it as a man might smack a mosquito. The monster’s enormous tree-trunk-sized arm came down hard on the suited Skull, and the twisted creature blew apart in a spray of broken bone and blood. The other Skulls gave no indication they saw, much less cared about, the aggressive display.

  They marched on, directionless, hungry. Deadly.

  And through the whole show, Frank Battaglia, lost pilot of the Huntress, watched from his position atop a hill, hidden behind a thicket of spruce and birch. He dared not even move to take a sip from his canteen. The slightest noise would draw the starving monsters to him like a dinner bell. In the dreams of his youth, he’d longed to play drums in a hair metal band. Back then, he had fantasized about running from hordes of adoring groupies. He’d never thought that one day he might be running from hordes of mutants with a far less lascivious hunger on their minds.

  His hand wrapped around the cool metal of the M1911 pistol tucked into his waistband. Instinct told him to pull it out and go through the methodical ritual of checking the chamber and magazine. But he already knew what he would find. Seven rounds in the magazine, one in the chamber.

  Eight bullets against an army of Skulls.

  Sorry to disappoint, space cadets, Frank thought. But today’s concert is cancelled on account of some asshole fans that tried to maul the drummer. Keep your hands—and teeth—off the merchandise.

  He needed to get over that highway. Under it. Past it. Whatever. But the entire length of road he’d paralleled so far had been crawling with Skulls. He shifted his weight, as slowly as humanly possible, and shrank back into the shadows of the trees.

  Maybe he could just stay here. If he closed his eyes, the invitingly sweet scent of the sap and the birds’ persistent songs reminded him of hiking through the woods as a kid. He could almost pretend that the low gurgling and growls of the Skulls was the churning of a distant brook, splashing across polished stones.

  Ah, hell, who was he kidding?

  This was the goddamned apocalypse. There was no pretending. No daydreaming. Life was a constant fucking nightmare. It was like being trapped in a never-ending horror film.

  And this was the worst fucking movie he’d ever seen.

  Strangely, it could also be pretty damn boring.

  Ever since he’d escaped that hellish underground prison outside Pentagon City, he had hiked westward alone. In his head, he still heard the voices calling desperately from the other cells asking to be set free as the Skulls tore apart the guards. The military brass had thought they were safe there, planning their war against the monsters from their concrete fortress. They’d been killed along with everyone else.

  But Frank knew better than to be fooled by the illusion of safety. He’d been in the field long enough to know nowhere was safe. Not on land. Not even at sea. Those damn monsters were more stubborn than a teething two-year-old being told he couldn’t watch The Teletubbies.

  Frank cocked his head as he trudged beneath the trees. Did kids still watch The T
eletubbies? Was that still a thing? He gave a noncommittal shrug to the ghosts in the forest. It didn’t matter now anyway. The Skulls had made sure of that.

  The brilliant yellow glow of midday sunlight gave way to the red light of sunset filtering between the branches. He’d been banking on finding someplace to shelter for the night. At this point, he would have slept in a panel truck. But the bone-plated monsters had already been milling about every backwoods fast-food joint and convenience store along the highway.

  Water sloshed in his canteen, a bitter reminder he was low on provisions, too. No food, eight bullets, and a cup of water if he was lucky. He thought about turning around, but there was something demoralizing about trudging back through the weeds and scraggly trees he’d already passed. The only thing he could do was push on to Manassas, Virginia, where he hoped he would find what he was looking for.

  A sudden low growl sounded behind him. Adrenaline surged through his vessels as he spun on his heels. Dusk light cast a brackish glow over a Skull in a soiled and torn set of denim overalls.

  Holy hillbilly zombies, Frank thought. But jokes wouldn’t do shit now, not with the creature charging him, its claws outstretched and spittle flying from its mouth.

  He reached for his pistol with one hand as he bent and grabbed an arm-sized branch with the other. A single bite or even a trivial scratch would infect him with the Oni Agent and drive him along the sickening biological pathway toward becoming one of these monsters.

  The creature leapt. Frank hoisted the branch and swung it with all the force he could muster. It connected with the Skull’s chomping teeth. It tore the makeshift weapon from Frank’s hand and scrambled to its feet, ready to pounce again. Frank’s nerves fired with familiar electricity, churned by fear and a desperate yearning to survive. He whipped out the pistol but didn’t dare take a shot. Firing the weapon here would be a death sentence; the loud noise would send the birds flying and call all the Skulls wandering the highway below. He’d been lucky enough the hillbilly Skull hadn’t shrieked the bloodcurdling cry he’d so often heard from these monsters.

  Frank didn’t count on luck alone. He charged the Skull and came in low, avoiding its slicing claws, and pistol-whipped the creature. The clash of metal against bone made a hollow sound, and chunks of the horns and spikes rimming the creature’s head cracked off. Another quick hit with the pistol sent a small fissure across the monster’s skull. It wheeled on him, jaw open, tongue quivering, and Frank bashed it straight in the mouth. While it pawed helplessly at its shattered teeth, Frank picked up the dropped branch. He used it like a battering ram, slamming the dazed Skull against a nearby tree trunk.

  He spied a rock and slammed it against the Skull’s face over and over until the creature’s limbs went limp. Blood trickled from the mangled bony plates covering its devastated face, and a low hiss whistled from between what remained of the Skull’s teeth as its body slumped forward.

  Frank heaved the rock once more into the monster’s head for good measure. He wiped his perspiring forehead with the back of his hand.

  “Told you,” Frank said, panting, “concert was cancelled.” He eyed the bloodied overalls. “And besides, you wouldn’t like my style anyway. I don’t play country.”

  Still recovering his breath, he was preparing to continue on when a snapping twig caught his attention. He wheeled around, ready to take down another Skull. Instead, he saw dozens of monsters among the trees. They were coming from the north side of the hill. To the south was the Skull-infested highway. He was being sandwiched by two separate hordes.

  He readied his pistol and clicked off the safety. Maybe he could take out a few of the hillside Skulls and sprint past them, weaving between the trees.

  Yeah, and then get run down like a deer being chased by wolves.

  He knew his limits, but he had to try something.

  Something else stirred in the pine needles. He swiveled, aiming the pistol. A squirrel scaling a tree blinked at him.

  The squirrel had the right idea. Frank stowed his pistol and leapt. His fingers grazed the branch above his head but didn’t quite connect. He fell down hard. The breaking branches and twigs under the Skulls’ feet sounded closer, and Frank coiled his legs, willing more power into his muscles. He was starved for energy, but he wouldn’t let a little hunger get in his way now.

  He jumped again. This time his hands clenched around the tree limb, and he pulled himself up. Branch by branch, he climbed until he was shrouded by pine needles. A quick glance up confirmed no other branches looked stable enough to support his weight, so he froze, hugging the tree trunk. In another tree, the squirrel he’d seen earlier bounded along a limb with practiced ease and then leapt to a shorter tree.

  “Thanks, little buddy,” Frank whispered as the first few Skulls wandered below.

  The squirrel continued on its way, its fluffy tail arched. More Skulls prowled below, apparently unaware of Frank. Their growls and long groans made it sound as if they were dying—figuratively and probably literally—for a fresh meal. They looked like the Las Vegas gamblers Frank had sometimes seen at three o’clock in the morning after losing their money and waddling to the all-you-can-eat buffets to drown their sorrows in prime rib and lobster.

  Frank breathed easier as he waited. Patience. That was all he needed now.

  Nearby, the squirrel had found a pinecone and was gnawing on it. Its teeth chattered like miniature hammers, chipping away at the pinecone as it rotated the thing in its paws.

  “Wanna get us both killed?” he asked in a low voice.

  The squirreled ignored him. Then, without warning, it dropped the pinecone and hopped away to go on some other thoughtless errand. The pinecone landed next to a Skull with long, fin-like protrusions growing from its back like sails.

  For a moment, all was still, and Frank thought the event had gone unnoticed, that maybe he would be fine. But the Skull’s head slowly looked upward. Its gaze followed up the tree trunk, then to the branches, then to Frank. Its eyes went wide.

  The beast dug its claws into the tree trunk, scaling it like a demented gecko. Frank ripped off a nearby tree branch and leapt from the limb. He stabbed the branch through the Skull’s open mouth, driving it down the creature’s throat and into its belly. His feet hit the ground hard, and he rolled as the Skull crashed down next to him. He didn’t bother glancing at the other creatures and instead sprinted northward. Pounding footsteps and a frustrated cry followed him.

  His actions hadn’t gone unnoticed—and neither would they go unpunished.

  Onward he ran. His lungs burned as his legs pumped. He dodged past tree trunks and hurdled over fallen logs. Tree branches whipped his face, scratching him, but he didn’t slow. Not with death so close at hand.

  His muscles ached, and he tasted copper. He wasn’t meant for physical exertion. Frank was a pilot, damn it. He was supposed to be soaring above the fray, not running for his life from a clamoring horde of man-eating monsters.

  More hunting cries sounded out behind him, calling other Skulls to the pursuit. Frank risked a quick glance and saw ghostly shapes flitting through the foliage. The telltale rattle of bone against bone chased him out of the forest and into a clearing. He dashed through a meadow of brown grass. On the other side lay a rusted chain-link fence and several squat, rectangular trailers—offices for a construction site. His heart leapt at the sight, hope springing up amid what he thought was certain doom. There might be shelter, water, and food, maybe even a weapon.

  Then he spotted a slew of yellow tractors and backhoes. Several pickups were parked next to a muddy patch where scaffolding stuck up from the ground like broken bones.

  Sorry, fans, Elvis has left the building, Frank thought. For a brief, giddy moment, he imagined himself driving through Virginia in a backhoe, using the scoop to smash any Skulls foolish enough to get in his way.

  The Skulls barreled after him across the meadow and into the construction site. He dodged a cement mixer then wound between concrete pillars, still h
eading toward the pickup trucks.

  Then something grabbed his foot, and he fell forward, sliding in the mud. His pistol slapped into the wet earth, and he turned to see what had snagged his boot. A tangle of wires encircled his ankle, and he fought to pull it free. But each tug only made it tighter.

  The first Skull cornered around one of the office trailers, followed by a second and third. They charged onward with hungry cries, their clawed feet kicking up globs of mud. He could see drool dripping from their mouths as they prepared to feast on fresh meat.

  Frank’s biggest regret, as the monsters closed in, was that no one would be

  here to record his awesome and hilarious last words for posterity.

  -2-

  Dom stood in the bridge of the Huntress with his first mate, Thomas Hampton. Cliff Slaton, serving as the ship’s helmsman, sat at the wheel, silently staring out over the bow as the ship cut through the cresting blue Atlantic waves. Gray clouds hung heavily in the air, threatening a downpour, as gusts of wind buffeted the ship.

  “Damn gloomy weather,” Thomas muttered. Gray whiskers lined his jaw, accentuating the wrinkles and dark bags under his eyes. He still sported a mottled, yellowing bruise along his cheek, and the bandaged bullet wounds beneath his shirt gave his shoulders a lopsided appearance. The sling cradling his arm didn’t help his looks, either. Thomas rolled a cigar between his forefinger and thumb, practically grinding it into powder.

  “You plan on smoking that?” Dom asked, already knowing the answer.

  “Just as soon as the color returns to my hair, and the world is rid of Skulls.”

  “The Skulls, I’ll take care of. The hair is between you and a box of Just for Men.”

  “Ah, I’m not that cheap,” Thomas said, his furrowed brow forming a gorge of wrinkles. “I think I’ll go to your stylist. Whatever salon you go to did a fine job with your new do.”