“Well, we need a backup plan. Just in case things don’t go so well for us on the roof.”
“Oh. I see.” Earl fell silent and puffed on his cigarette for a moment. “Could we drive out of the city?” he asked finally.
“How do you mean?”
“Well, like I said. Could we drive outta here?”
“Our vehicles are back in Central Park, Earl. We’d have a hell of a time getting to them and then getting back here to pull everyone out. Besides, we’d need a tank or something real heavy to drive over the stenches when they line up to eat our brains.”
“What about an armored car?” Earl asked.
McDaniels did a double take. “Sorry?”
“An armored car. We have stuff like that in the garage. After 9/11, some of the execs got a van or an SUV or somethin’ like that and made it all armored and shit. So they can drive around and not get shot, or somethin’.” Earl shrugged. “They might not a needed it right after 9/11, but once the economy went into the shitter, there was all sorts of trouble from people wantin’ to try and take on some of the investment folks, you know. Some real bad shit for a while there.”
McDaniels took another drag off his cigarette and gathered his thoughts. “Earl... are you telling me there’s an armored transport in this building?”
Earl rubbed his chin. His beard stubble was gray, and it stood out on his dark skin like feathery strokes of white-out correction fluid from the old days.
“Well, yeah. Somethin’ like that, anyway.”
McDaniels snorted and finished his cigarette. He turned to the sink and wetted down the butt, then tossed it into a nearby trash can. He looked back at Earl with a thin smile.
“Earl, you amaze me. You manage to hole up in this place and keep out of harm’s way, and then you come up with a possible alternative for us to get the hell out of here. Well... at least the first step toward getting out of here, anyway. Thanks for that, you’ve just helped me save some face with my first sergeant. Now I can at least pretend I have the beginnings of a Plan B.”
“That’s good though, right?”
McDaniels clapped him on the shoulder. “That’s more than good. That’s just fucking magnificent, man.”
Earl beamed.
“Holy fuck,” Rittenour said. His voice was scarcely more than a choked whisper, and Leary automatically tensed. He pushed off from the cinderblock wall he’d been leaning against and joined Rittenour at the door. Rittenour was bigger than Leary and about thirty pounds heavier, so there was no way Leary could look past him and see anything through the small crack in the fire door.
“What is it?” he asked, voice low.
Rittenour slowly moved out of the way. “Take a look for yourself, man.”
Leary stepped forward and pressed his helmeted head against the fire door. He peered out through the small crack between the door and the frame, which allowed him to look across a small sliver of the lobby. Beyond the pale marble floor, he could barely see the windows facing the street—which street it was, he could not remember, nor was it important to him. Dark shapes loomed in the deepening night. Even though the streetlights were still on, most of the details were lost upon him, but from their aimless, shambling gait he knew the building was still surrounded by the walking dead. Only a few of them pressed against the windows, however; they had probably forgotten about the soldiers and civilians inside, but the lobby was brightly lit, and it doubtless attracted them. Leary wondered if they should work on a way to douse the lights.
Then another shape appeared, and Leary’s eyes widened when it stepped into full view, brushing against the thick glass separating the lobby from the street. The figure wore the filthy remnants of battle dress utilities, and still had a helmet strapped to its head. Its eyes were wide and unblinking, and a bloodless gash had been opened across its chin, gaping like a second mouth. The zombie’s eyes moved in its skull as it peered in and scanned the lobby.
“It’s Mr. Keith,” Leary whispered. “Jesus, Mr. Keith’s a fucking zed!”
“I always knew the guy was a real stiff,” Rittenour said, going for humor when none could be found. Leary glanced back at him, and saw the taller soldier was as shocked by this as he was. Death was nothing new to the troops who served in the nation’s elite Special Forces branch, but seeing a teammate come back as a member of the walking dead was enough to tax anyone’s neurons, not matter how hard core they were.
Leary looked out through the cracked door again. His former team leader examined the lobby with dead eyes, his—its?—bloodless lips moving in a silent cadence. Was it actually saying something? Leary thought not, but the thought that Keith’s body might still be inhabited by some sort of residual intelligence merely served to ramp up the creep factor.
And then, to Leary’s horror, Keith was joined by another uniformed special operator. And another. And another.
“Oh my God... it looks like the rest of the team is out there!” he said, his voice a strangled whisper. “I think I see Sanchez. And Larrabee. And Meltser!”
“Get out of the way, let me look.” The two soldiers swapped places, and Rittenour peered through the opening. He was silent for a few moments as he took in the scene. The muscles of his jaw knitted as he clenched his teeth. Finally, he straightened and stepped back from the door, motioning Leary to take over. As the shorter soldier stepped back into position, Rittenour activated his radio.
“Major, this is Rittenour. Uh, we’ve got some pretty spooky shit happening down here. Looks like the rest of OMEN Team has found us, over.”
CHAPTER 13
The news of OMEN Team’s arrival at the building caught McDaniels by surprise. He had been on his way to find Gartrell to discuss what Earl had told him when the message came over the radio. It stopped him dead in his tracks and it took a moment for him to process what Rittenour had said.
“This is Six. Say again, over.”
“Major, this is Rittenour. Looks like several members of OMEN Team have, uh, reanimated. Leary and I can see them outside, over.”
Gartrell appeared then, marching through the cafeteria to stand at McDaniels’ side. The two men looked at each other, and McDaniels saw his “What the fuck?” expression reflected in Gartrell’s face.
McDaniels chose his words carefully. “Let me get this straight, Ritt. You say you see members of OMEN outside the building... and they’re zeds, correct? Over.”
“Roger that, Six. That’s exactly what I’m saying. Over.”
“Wow, that’s totally off the hook,” Gartrell muttered.
“Rittenour, give me a count,” McDaniels said.
“Trying to get that now, major. Stand by.”
McDaniels put his hands on his hips, his thoughts whirling. Was the arrival of the team significant? If they were zeds, then there was very little chance it was intentional. Once a corpse was reanimated, there was no evidence intelligence remained in the corpse. But the Black Hawk the Special Forces team had been aboard went down right after takeoff. How was it they found their way to the building?
“Interesting that they should show up here,” Gartrell said, apparently thinking along the same lines as McDaniels.
“Unnerving, is more like it. What do you make of it, first sergeant?”
Gartrell shrugged. “Well... there is a crashed helicopter right outside, after all...”
McDaniels hadn’t considered that, and the notion gave rise to a new level of dread in his heart. Jesus... even after they’re dead, do these things still have memories? Is Keith trying to find us?
“Is there a problem?”
Both men turned to see Regina Safire walking up on them, her hands in the pockets of her trousers. She looked from McDaniels to Gartrell and back to McDaniels again.
“Just a report from downstairs, ma’am. Nothing to worry about, our security posture remains the same.” Gartrell used his best “you civilians wouldn’t understand” tone, something he had previously reserved for inquires from various reporters during the t
ime he had spent as McDaniels’ team NCO in Afghanistan and Iraq. It was usually an effective response, one that almost always resulted in shutting down the civilian interrogator and sending him or her packing.
This was not one of those times. Regina was completely undeterred.
“So if nothing’s changed, why do you guys look so spooked?”
“It’s a spooky situation, Miss Safire,” McDaniels said, a little testily. “We’re in a pretty bad spot, and there’s a lot going on with the rescue.”
“Six, this is Rittenour. I count four OMEN guys outside. They still have most of their gear, but one guy—looks like Larrabee—well, something must’ve eaten his left arm, it’s gone, only a tattered stump left.” Rittenour paused, and McDaniels turned away from Regina and Gartrell and walked toward the windows. “This is a little weirder than I signed up for, major. Over.”
“It’s a little weirder than any of us were looking forward to, Ritt. You guys need to keep eyes on target down there. I don’t like that these things just showed up all of a sudden. Not here, not now. Something about it stinks, over.”
“Was that a pun, major? If so, it was a bad one, given we’re surrounded by stenches. Over.”
McDaniels looked down at the rain swept street below. The wind moaned as it hurtled past the corner and curved around its shape. Zeds of all shapes and sizes lingered about, some barely moving, others more active. They continued to shamble about in that mindless way of theirs, waiting with infinite patience for... what?
For food. For us.
“That was unintentional, Ritt, I swear. Listen, that MV-22 is inbound. Should be getting close now. When we give the word, you guys need to haul ass up here. But until we call, you two stay on top of things down there. Understood? Over.”
“Got it, Six. We’ll stay put until you call us up. Do you want us to blow the stairs when we pull back? Gotta tell you, sir, the concussion might be enough to bust some of the windows down here, and if the extraction gets FUBARed, we could be in a worse spot. Over.”
“Roger that, Ritt. Negative on the demo... let’s keep that in our hip pocket in case we need it. Over.”
“Hooah on that, major. Over.”
“That’s all for now. Hang tight, you’ll be hearing from us soon. Terminator Six, out.” McDaniels ended the transmission.
“Is everything all right?” Regina asked. She stood just behind McDaniels. “Sounds like things are a little wobbly downstairs, maybe?”
“No such thing,” McDaniels told her. “Everyone’s still a hundred percent operational, Miss Safire. Updates do not necessarily mean a change in our circumstances, only additional intel that we have to take into account. Nothing more ominous than that.”
She remained unconvinced, and he saw it in her dark eyes. She evaluated him coolly for a long moment, then slowly nodded. Gartrell hovered over her right shoulder, automatically attaining an at rest stance.
“If you say so, major. But remember... you need my father alive, and if you hold back something that might interfere with that... well, I’m pretty sure your superiors won’t like that, will they?”
“If something happens to your father on my watch, I don’t give a damn what my commanding officers think,” McDaniels snapped. “Because we’ll all be dead. That’s what it’ll take for anything to happen to your father, Miss Safire. The rest of us will have to die first.” He stepped closer to her, all business now, no more Mr. Nice Guy. Her eyes widened a bit in surprise, and she took a half step back.
Good. She gets it, McDaniels told himself.
“I understand, major. Sorry, didn’t mean to offend you. I know you’re doing the best job you can. It’s just that... well...” Words seemed to fail her, and at the end, all she could do was offer an apologetic shrug.
“No offense taken,” McDaniels told her, “but the constant needling from you and your father is pissing me off.”
She nodded stiffly, and looked away from him. “Yes. As I said, I’m sorry.”
“If the situation changes in any way, you’ll be notified.”
Regina nodded again, and smiled briefly when she looked back at him for an instant. “Thank you,” she said, then turned to leave. She drew short, apparently surprised to find Gartrell so near. He stepped aside quickly, and she moved past him. The two men watched her return to the booth she shared with her father. If Safire had heard any of the exchange, he hadn’t turned around to watch what was going on. That suited McDaniels fine. The less Wolf Safire said for the moment, the better off everyone would be.
Gartrell leaned toward him conspiratorially. “I don’t know if you remember your boom lessons, sir, but if Ritt and Leary are in the stairwell when the charges go off, it’ll ring their bells big time. They’ll have to retreat to at least the fifth floor and secure the fire door before they can blow the stairwell.”
“Are you recommending they pull back now?”
Gartrell shook his head. “No, sir—they need to stay where they are for now. But they are danger close, and some of those zeds can move pretty damned fast when they think they can get their snack on. I guess what I’m trying to say is, if they can’t get to five quick enough, they’ll have to blow the stairs, and probably go out doing it.”
McDaniels nodded soberly. “I get it, first sergeant. But if we send anyone else into the stairwell, they could get rendered INOP as well. Unless you have an alternative?”
“Yeah. Pray like hell that nothing breaks through those lobby windows until after we’re on that Osprey and bitching about the coffee service. Because if things go to shit, we’re gonna be in a world of hurt, stairway or no stairway.”
McDaniels nodded, but Finelly’s hurried approach stopped him from responding any further. Gartrell turned and followed his gaze.
“What is it, sergeant?” he said when Finelly trotted up to them.
“Thunder’s on the radio, first sergeant. They’ll be on-station in five minutes, and they’re requesting we deploy an IR strobe to help them navigate.”
Gartrell turned to McDaniels. “And the mighty, mighty jarheads hath arriveth.”
“You have them on your prick ninety, Finelly?” McDaniels asked.
“Yes, sir. Requested the strobe set up and number of souls to extract.”
“Tell them twelve, and advise we have wounded as well as minors. And get the strobe set up. Hell, use all of ‘em if you need to. Take Derwitz with you.”
“Roger that,” Finelly said, and he turned to go, his mind already on the job ahead. McDaniels grabbed his thick arm and jerked him to a halt.
“Stay in the game,” he said, staring into Finelly’s eyes. “Practice force protection, and keep your eyes open. We’re not out of here yet, and for all we know, there are a dozen stenches in this building who just might happen to find their way to the stairs while we’re busy waiting for our ride. It would be professionally embarrassing for all of us if someone get bit on the ass at this point in the game. Got it?”
Finelly nodded slowly. “Got it, sir.”
McDaniels let him go. “Get on with it, then. Gartrell and I will get Jimenez ready and bring him and the Safires up to the roof once Thunder’s on station. You send Derwitz down to us when they’re ready for us. Good copy?”
“Good copy, major. You got it, sir.”
“Move out.”
Finelly turned and sprinted toward the corridor exit, beckoning Derwitz to follow him. McDaniels checked his watch. If all went well, they’d be uploaded and out of the hell hole New York City had become in fifteen minutes.
“Let’s get Jimenez squared away,” he told Gartrell.
CHAPTER 14
The MV-22 bounced all over the place as it flew up the East River, its big rotors churning as they propelled the ungainly-looking aircraft through the wet night air. From his seat on the left side of the cockpit, the AC had a good view of the city. Parts of it were still lit up like normal, but vast swaths of lower Manhattan had fallen into darkness. Other isolated patches of darkness could be se
en throughout the midtown section, as if a malignant cancer had begun to metastasize throughout the city. The lights of the Brooklyn and Manhattan bridges were dark, save for the strobing beacons atop NYPD vehicles and city fire trucks as they maintained cordons to protect the boroughs from the dead. To the right, the boroughs of Brooklyn and Queens were still alight, though for how long, the AC had no idea. Ahead loomed the Williamsburg Bridge, bright and shiny in the rainy night.
“Three klicks to target,” the pilot said from the right seat.
“Roger.” The AC kept his hands on the cyclic and collective pitch sticks, guiding the MV-22 up the river. Despite the rain and the mounting wind, some fires still burned in the city, and the sky was momentarily set alight by an explosion so brilliant that it overwhelmed the Osprey’s forward-looking infrared scanner and the night vision goggles the two pilots wore. The AC swore as he flipped his goggles up on their swing away mount and looked through the MV-22’s windscreen with nothing more sophisticated than the Mark I eyeball.
“What the hell was that?” the pilot asked.
“Gas station I think. Or maybe a tanker truck. Not really sure.” Below, blue strobe lights flashed. The AC looked down as the aircraft thundered on, and saw the lights belonged to an NYPD launch. At least someone was still alive down there.
“NVGs are back,” the pilot announced as he dropped his back over his eyes. The gallium-arsenide arrays had cleared themselves of the momentary whiteout caused by the explosion. He grabbed the FLIR’s control yoke and panned the unit from side to side, ensuring its super-cooled optical planar array had not suffered any damage. The AC dropped his NVGs over his own eyes, and in the distance, he saw a metronomic flash.
“I have an IR beacon ahead and about ten degrees off the left nose,” he reported. “Raise the Terminator team, tell them we’ll be overhead in about thirty seconds. Aircrew, LZ is in sight—prepare the aircraft to transition to a hover!”
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