ARISEN_Book Fourteen_ENDGAME

by Michael Stephen Fuchs

  Fick and his QRF had already been running toward the north walls across the northernmost yard of the prison, and now he angled them to the left to intercept the unwelcome guest. He could already see it bouncing off the ground and taking off like the Roadrunner – but not toward them. He raised his rifle and tracked it as he ran, and heard a couple of shots crack off from the men behind him.

  But then he quickly shouted, “Check fire, check fire!”

  Because there were living people in their background.

  Another group of soldiers was running toward the invader from the opposite end of the yard – and the Foxtrot was running straight at them. And now the other guys were firing and Fick could hear the snap of rounds passing through the ranks of his own men, so he grabbed dirt, shouting for his RMPs to do the same. Even as he did, he could hear someone in the other group, presumably their commander, shouting at them to cease fire, as well.

  Well, that’s something, Fick thought. Son of a bitch is at least returning the courtesy.

  But that still left the damned Foxtrot, pleasantly unmolested.

  And, looking up from the dirt, Fick could see it had for some inexplicable reason reversed course in the chaos, and was coming back toward him and his group. Since he wasn’t being lit up anymore, he climbed to his feet, pulled the entrenching tool (e-tool) from his pack, snapped it open – and charged.

  The Foxtrot was moving like a dead man with ants in his pants, lurching around in that crazy fucked-up way they did – and it had definitely locked onto Fick.

  He didn’t give a shit.

  He just wound up the compact shovel, brought it around – and took the manic dead guy’s head clean off, with a single swing. The body slid into the dirt as Fick stepped out of its way, but the head kept going, tumbling and rolling into the ranks of his men where they lay hunkered on the ground. Not least because the head was still fully animated, hissing and gnashing its teeth, the RMPs scattered like pigeons.

  Fick looked up ahead to see it wasn’t a group of soldiers that had lit them up after all. It was actually Marines – British Royal Marines. Fick would recognize their berets and insignia anywhere. He could also read British military rank – and the one sauntering up to him now was their commander.

  “Master Gunnery Sergeant,” the man said, putting out his hand.

  Fick grunted. Evidently this guy could read U.S. rank, too. But he took the hand. “Lieutenant,” he said.

  “It’s Major, actually. Field promotion.”

  I don’t give a shit, Fick thought, but kept it to himself.

  “Say, you’re not Fick by any chance, are you?”

  “In the flesh.”

  Jameson nodded. “I’m supposed to come find you.”

  “Well, you found me.”

  Jameson shifted. “To get slotted into the defense.”

  Fick grunted and tossed his head upward, from where there now came the sound of steady firing at the top of the walls. “The defense is right up there,” he said, then nodded and grunted toward one of the big dirt ramps that had been piled up behind the walls, the one serving the north sector.

  He paused before adding: “Sir.”

  * * *

  Juice and Predator got up top first, Predator finding Wesley and slapping him on the shoulder – almost knocking him down and into the dead, ending his battle before it began.

  “LT Wesley!” he shouted over the gunfire, smiling. “Good to see you, man.” Ever since Wesley and his tiny contingent of shore patrolmen and aircraft mechanics had saved Alpha’s bacon in the ambush at Djibouti Airport, Pred was a big fan of the former security guard.

  Wes was glad to see him, too, though he grimaced slightly, probably remembering Pred’s “glorified mall security guards” comment about him and his Naval Security Forces. But that was a long time ago, and Wesley had come a long way. Jesus once said, “Never preach in your home town,” and suddenly Wes got it. Even the son of God still looked like a carpenter to the people who knew him back in the day.

  “Shit, this happened fast,” Juice said.

  Pred turned to see him looking over the parapet and out onto the ground outside. He joined him to take a look. With the lights out again – all of them this time – it was a little hard to make out. But, then again, not all that hard. What had recently been a smattering of dead at the walls was now a horde. And it was growing fast.

  They were coming in from everywhere.

  There were still scatterings of RMPs and other armed personnel climbing up onto the walls and mustering – and the ones already there had started shooting to beat back the tide. Wesley shouted into Predator’s ear to explain.

  “I’ve instructed the men to restrict their fire for now to keep the dead from piling up vertically – mainly to prevent launching pads for Foxtrots leaping over the walls. So far, we’ve been successful – mostly.”

  Pred grunted in approval. “Your tactical head is in the right place. But you’re not thinking strategically enough. The trouble is destroyed dead pile up, too. And while we like ’em better horizontal than vertical, we like ’em best of all somewhere else entirely – not piled up against the walls. You need to have your guys target them farther out, and put them down before they reach the walls in the first place.”

  Wesley nodded. “Roger that, wilco.”

  “What’s the strength and disposition of your force?”

  “One hundred sixty-four combat-effective soldiers in total – plus me, and Fick. As you can see, the bulk, about a hundred, are concentrated here in the northern sector. Four emplaced machine-guns, one at each of the towers on the end, two in between. Another dozen men down on the ground with Fick in his QRF. The remainder on the walls around the rest of the perimeter, thinnest at the southernmost point.” Wesley looked slightly surprised to hear this efficient and comprehensive report come out of his own mouth. Like he was no longer just playing at being a military commander – but could actually do it now.

  Pred ignored this, taking Wesley’s competence as a given, and instead looked over to Juice – then back out and down to the ground outside.

  And the two of them both instantly knew what Wesley did not: it wasn’t going to be enough. Not for long. The MGs would do a lot of damage, particularly while the ammo held out. And the RMPs were game, and putting on a brave face. But in the main they were young, inexperienced, and nothing like front-line infantry. Mainly, they were not used to being in a situation remotely like the one they now found themselves in. The non-RMP British soldiers were even worse. And mainly, even taken all together, there were just way too few of them.

  This wasn’t going to work.

  Pred and Juice could anchor the defense, shore it up, and help lead it. But they couldn’t be everywhere, and it wasn’t going to be enough. Juice got on the radio to brief Ali, while Pred went with Wes to greet a unit of Royal Marines just arriving and get them fitted into the line.

  And to tweak what defenders they had to best effect.

  * * *

  “Hey, Ali. Yeah, be advised this defensive line is paper thin. And the enemy’s piling up pretty fast.”

  In the JOC, Ali frowned at Homer, both of them listening.

  “How long are we looking at?”

  “Not minutes, but definitely not days.”

  Guess that leaves hours, she thought. “Copy,” she said. “Buy us whatever time you can.”

  “Wilco. But whatever you’ve got in mind, do it fast. Out.”

  Ali looked at Homer. She didn’t have to tell him. They were out of time, and pretty much down to a single option.

  “I’ll go,” he said. “I’ll get however much MZ Aliyev has, get it loaded up in the paintballs, and get up on the walls. Wouldn’t mind having you doing the shooting, though.”

  Ali would have preferred to stay on station leading the defense. But she knew Miller was capable enough, and could take it. Moreover, if it was between commanding and shooting, she knew where she could add most value. She leaned into the nearby CCTV s
tation and took a quick look at the tactical situation on and outside the north walls.

  “Meet you at that guard tower,” she said, pointing at the screen. It was the one that sat on the far right flank of the north side, so was not yet closely engaged, yet provided the broad field of fire she needed.

  Homer nodded and moved out – fast.

  Sul

  CentCom – Prison

  Aiden peeked out onto the main hallway again. He didn’t understand why all the overhead lights had come on, then gone off again. He was just grateful that when they did, this time, the dim floor lighting stayed on. It was enough to see by, and enough to shoot in if he had to.

  Maybe enough for him to keep his brother and the girl safe.

  That had also been what caused him to do what he’d done just before. Namely look into the eyes of the man being eaten alive at the end of the hall… then turn away, and go back to Luke and Josie. He hadn’t done it lightly. His impulse had been to help. Dad had taught them always to help, whenever they could.

  But his highest duty was to protect his brother.

  Maybe the only duty higher than that was to protect the little girl. And if he had tried to save that man, he would have put those two in danger. He thought he probably could have shot the Zulu attacking the man. But the sound of the gunshot would have brought more. And he knew it wouldn’t have mattered anyway. The man was already infected. He would only have had to shoot him, too, whenever he turned.

  So he had steeled himself and walked away.

  But now that the noises had stopped, he was back out in the hallway to check. And the floor lights were enough for him to see the Zulu at the end of the hallway was gone. More strangely, the man was, too. But his flashlight was still on the floor, and still lit.

  It was strange, but Aiden didn’t have time to think about it. Because he still had to get them out of there, back to grown-ups and help and safety. And he still hoped the man had been heading toward an exit. So he went back and got Josie and Luke, making sure his brother still had Mum’s purse with the extra bullets in it, and got them moving in that direction.

  When they reached the dropped flashlight, Aiden scooped it up and panned it around. There was blood on the floor, and on the wall where the man and the Zulu had been fighting. But still no trace of either of them. Then he panned the light down, and saw an opening low on the wall. It was some kind of air duct or crawlspace, and the grate covering it had been unscrewed and put aside. Leaning in and pointing the light inside – but also the gun – he saw two things. One, it was open at the other end, with light coming through. And, two, there was a smear of blood all the way down its length.

  He looked back to his brother and Josie and tried to decide how to do this. Finally he figured there was only one way. He grasped Luke by the shoulder and said, “I’m going to go first, and make sure it’s safe.”

  Luke shook his head. “Don’t go.”

  “It’ll be fine.” He checked the hallway behind them, then gave the gun to his brother. “You remember?” Luke nodded, looking scared. “The safety’s there,” Aiden said to remind him.

  “I know that,” Luke said.

  “Don’t shoot unless you have to. If you see a Zulu, just whisper down the tunnel.” He turned and knelt down by Josie. When he looked her in the eye, she held his gaze. “I need your blanket,” he said, slipping it off her shoulders.

  “Blagheh,” Josie gurgled, flapping her arms.

  He took the blanket and the flashlight and climbed into the duct headfirst. Then, pointing the light ahead, he crawled the length of it, pushing the blanket ahead of him and carefully wiping up the blood smears as well as he could.

  When he reached the other end, no more than twenty or thirty feet, Aiden could see it opened up into some kind of big space beyond. He suddenly wondered why there wasn’t a grate on this end – and realized he’d have had no idea what to do if there had been. Instead he just counted his blessings, climbed out, tossed the bloody blanket away, and tried to keep his breathing quiet. Looking around, he didn’t see anyone. But it was much better lit here, and there were several hallways leading out. He had a feeling they could make their way to help from here – like this was a part of the prison that was used, versus abandoned and sealed up.

  Looking more closely, he could make out bloody footprints leading away down one of the hallways. They obviously wouldn’t be going that way. With a last look around to make sure it was clear, he crawled back in, down the length, and out the other side. He was proud that Luke didn’t turn to face him but instead faced away, keeping the gun pointed down the hall.

  He touched him on the shoulder and said, “You have to go through now.” Luke didn’t look happy about this, but Aiden pushed his head down into the crawlspace, and the smaller boy complied and started crawling. Once he was in, he clearly just wanted to get out again.

  Aiden shined the light back down the hall behind them. It was still empty. He leaned down to Josie, sitting on the floor gurgling. “We have to go through here,” he said. “Okay?” She looked at him like she understood, or at least wasn’t going to protest. So Aiden put the flashlight down, picked her up, and put her down on her stomach in the crawlspace. Then he pushed on her bottom, which was puffy, due to her diaper he guessed, and shoved her a couple of feet ahead. Then he retrieved the light, followed her in…

  And pushed her along ahead of him.

  She made a delighted squeal as she slid on her belly.

  When they reached the other end, Luke was there, helping pull Josie out, and Aiden crawled out after her. Taking the gun back from Luke, he looked around. It was still clear – though now he realized he could hear the sound of gunfire from somewhere. But it was muted and distant and didn’t seem like an immediate danger. Looking around, he even thought he saw what looked like an outside door, at the end of one of the long hallways that let off the area they were in.

  They had made it.

  He picked up Josie and looked around, trying to make sure about the best direction to go – and that they weren’t going anywhere the bloody footprints led, which should be easy enough. As he exhaled and started to move them out, feeling less afraid than he had since they’d gotten cut off in the prison, he heard Josie, cradled in his arms, making another one of her cutesy noises. This one sounded like she was trying to form an actual word.

  “What is it?” he asked with a smile. “What are you saying?”

  Josie raised her arm over Aiden’s shoulder.

  “Sul,” she cooed.

  Aiden kept smiling, but also squinted. “What’s that, then?”

  Luke screamed.

  “Zulu,” Josie said happily, pointing over his shoulder.

  Aiden spun around.

  A dead man was pulling himself out of the crawlspace.

  * * *

  Homer slowed from a run to a jog as he crossed the entrance of the Biosciences complex, and kept it up until he was in the labs. He found the Kazakh where they’d left him. The bespectacled man looked up at the sound of Homer’s wet Salomon boots slapping on the tiles.

  “It’s time,” Homer said.

  Aliyev glanced over at the culturing table, looking like Pharaoh had come for his first-born son. But he didn’t protest. He could hear the firing at the walls. So he simply led Homer over there, unplugged the device, and wheeled it back to the table with the paintball stuff. But then he paused.

  “Not all of it,” Aliyev said.

  “Okay,” Homer said. “Tell me why.”

  “We have to at least keep some seed stock. Because when it’s gone, it’s gone forever. What if this doesn’t work?”

  Homer actually agreed with what Aliyev had said earlier – he didn’t particularly think they were going to get a second shot at this. But he also knew he couldn’t predict the future. And he recognized the wisdom in the Kazakh’s recommendation.

  “Okay,” he said, reaching into one of the cardboard boxes and pulling out a bag of 500 paintballs. “Now help me get
as many of these filled as we can.” He smiled across at the agitated scientist. “Ideally without infecting myself – or the whole base.”

  “Hell,” Aliyev said. “The idea is to infect the whole world.”

  They’d been working about two minutes when Homer looked up to see Dr. Park enter. He was holding a syringe and advanced on Homer with it. “Don’t move,” he said, then jammed it into Homer’s buttock and depressed the plunger.

  “That smarts,” Homer said.

  “It’ll get worse before it gets better. But, congratulations. Assuming you don’t get infected in the next four to eight hours, however you finally go down, you’ll be human at the end.”

  “Nice. Thanks, Doc.”

  “No problem. Where’s the rest of Alpha? I need to do them.”

  “Up on the walls. But you can’t go up there.”

  Park looked like he wanted to argue with him. But he knew better – he still couldn’t be risked. “Fine.” He turned and left without another word.

  Eight minutes later, Aliyev and Homer had used all of the cultured MZ except for a tiny amount, which was left in the sealable Petri dish Aliyev had originally brought with him. And the result was: exactly eight full paintballs.

  As Homer was dividing them evenly between the hoppers of two paintball rifles with full air tanks, Park returned with two lab techs in tow. Each held two long, wide, and thin plastic cases. Park grabbed one, popped the lid, and displayed it for Homer. Inside it were twenty full syringes.

  “Seconds count,” Park said, to Homer and the two techs.

  Homer nodded, noting what Park didn’t say: Let these guys go up on the walls and risk getting killed. He nodded and wedged the two paintball rifles under one arm.

  “Keep up, guys,” he said.

  But then as he turned toward the exit, Aliyev grabbed his elbow. “Listen,” he said. “You need to hit them in the face. Without injecting them, it’s the only way to ensure infection. And even that’s not totally certain.”