Waiting to explode.
Unable to bear watching the fuel gauge for the second tank creep toward full, she craned her head out the cockpit to the right, where she could see Noise smiling in the firelight as he monitored the end of the hose at that tank, and periodically triggering off shotgun blasts at Foxtrots that leapt over the shrinking ranks of defenders. Out to the left, she could see the terrified young RMP, guarding the fuel line at the tanker-truck end – and the dangerously patched together section of hose a few feet away.
And then she looked forward – out toward the airstrip.
She hit her radio, and gave Noise the good news first. “Second tank at seventy-five percent.”
“Excellent! You will be airborne in no time!”
“Yeah. Just one small problem: there’s no fucking way I can take off through that.” From her elevated position up in the cockpit, she didn’t have a perfect view of the runway. But it was good enough to see it was covered with active and destroyed dead – hundreds or thousands of bodies. Her best guess was she’d be okay taxiing across the overrun section of Common between her and the foot of the airstrip. The propellers, wheels, and airframe would probably cut through the crowd well enough. But when she tried to accelerate to take-off speed through that… the engines, wings, and particularly landing gear of the much-abused aircraft would be seriously at risk. At best.
“And yet you must take off,” Noise replied. “My eight nieces and nephews are depending upon you!”
Hailey shook her head. Christ, what was it with this guy? “Look, asshole, if I try it, I’ll just destroy the fucking aircraft.”
“No, you will be fine. As soon as we finish fueling, I’ll lead the way – and clear the runway with the tanker truck.”
Hailey cocked her head. Okay. That could actually work.
Out through the cockpit glass, she watched as another Foxtrot flew through the night. However, this one wasn’t coming from outside the lines – but rather from inside Bio.
It was also on fire – blazing from head to toe.
And it was arcing down toward the tanker and fueling hose.
Ahh, shit…
* * *
With breathtaking suddenness, the slope of dead up from the prison to the rooftop had risen high enough that the first Foxtrots were able to make the leap up top. The first few just bashed into the massed line of defenders on that side and got hurled back.
And they were hurled back with authority.
Anchoring the very center of the line like a colossus was Predator, batting the flying bodies back, literally, with his bat, as if they were little more than frogs hopping up at him. Juice stood to his right, alternately bashing and stabbing with the butt and bayonet of his SIG, lamenting all the gunk he was getting on the beautiful weapon, hoping he didn’t damage it. It was a little late in the day for that, but old loyalties died hard.
To Pred’s left was a man nearly as big as him – a strapping German farmboy, who Pred knew from around USOC as a KSK operator called Stier (“Bull”). Slung beside his body, he had an H&K G36 rifle, unsurprisingly – but slightly more so was the melee weapon he was wielding: a 30-pound battering ram with loop handle, normally used to knock down steel-reinforced doors. Now it was knocking down leaping dead, though half-crushing them first.
“Wie gehts, Stier?” Pred said, when he had a second.
“Hey, what’s up, Pred.” His voice was a cool rumble.
“Hey, you know this guy?” Pred looked over to see Juice motioning to another big man on his own right. Pred didn’t know him, which was surprising, because he could see on his shoulder both the Ranger tab and Ranger scroll – insignia of the 75th Regiment. His nametape read Langmack.
“Hey,” Pred shouted. “Second bat.”
“RRC,” the man said – meaning the elite Ranger Reconnaissance Company.
“Right on, brother. Sua sponte.” They bumped fists across Juice. And then they got back to hurling and bashing, all out of time for making new friends – probably forever.
Pred looked up as the first Foxtrots started soaring over the front line. Not in the center where they were – the defenders there were both too big and too effective at knocking them back down the growing pile. But out on the flanks…
They were starting to leap over heads and into their rear.
That was going to be a problem.
Enemy swarming in your rear almost always was.
* * *
In the middle of that rear area, huddled up, were Amarie and the families, and a few of the other Tunnelers too exhausted or wounded to fight.
And guarding them was Wesley on one side, his Marine officer’s sword drawn and ready, Colley on the other, axe held aloft with both hands. But it was Wesley on the side facing the prison, so when the first Foxtrot landed in the open area between him and the defensive line, he guessed he was closest, or at least first to see it. Without hesitation, he raced forward to intercept, sword whistling. He caught it in the neck even as it recovered from its landing, but it was a dead soldier, and wearing body armor – and the Kevlar stopped his diagonal slash halfway through its throat.
But even as he yanked to try to dislodge the blade, Fick’s entrenching tool came in from the other direction, finishing the job, and sending the head tumbling on its merry way. Wesley nodded his thanks, but didn’t have to say anything.
He and Fick turned to face the front line on the west side again – where they could now see defenders beating back leaping dead with swords, rifle butts, Predator’s bat – whatever they had. The one thing nobody had any more of was ammo to shoot. And it wasn’t all just Foxtrots now. Even in the last few minutes, the slope had risen enough that runners were dashing right up to the base of the roof and grabbing on.
The flood tide was lapping at their gunwales.
The wolf was at the door – the last door going.
Wesley looked over at Fick and spoke in a booming voice. “The line must be drawn – here and no further!”
Fick just gave him a What the fucking fuck? look.
Wesley grinned. “Meant to tell you. I was always more of a Next Generation fan.”
Fick shook his head. “Well, you see anywhere else to draw the fucking line, Jean-Luc, I suggest you rally your redshirts.”
Remarkably, even Wesley seemed to have that happy warrior spirit now. They were all seriously about to die, and the entire world about to end. But somehow he was still having fun. Wes paused and squinted, wondering how this was even possible. And then, scanning the faces of those around him in this tiny and shrinking circle of humanity, most of them both familiar and very fond now, and all of whom he’d happily die to protect, he finally understood: it was always all about the people around you. And the love you felt for them.
That was how you knew you weren’t dead.
Hearing firing behind him, he turned and looked beyond and above the huddling group of women, kids, and Tunnelers, and realized someone did have some ammo left. It was the small knot of defenders around the stairwell structure, who were shooting to defend the two standing on top of it.
Who were also shooting – to defend everyone else.
* * *
Boom.
A miss.
Boom. A miss. Boom. Another miss. Fuck.
Private Elliot Walker of 2nd Battalion, the Parachute Regiment (2 PARA) tried to blink the burning sweat out of his eyes. He didn’t dare take his hands off his weapon, or his eye from the optic, not for even a second. There was no time. They were all out of time.
Everyone everywhere was.
Track… breathe… settle… squeeze…
BOOM. Another miss.
The Mk 12 Special Purpose Rifle was booming because Ali had taken the suppressor off. No point now. And he was missing because he was trying to make headshots on Foxtrots – at night, in the rain, surrounded by rampaging dead closing in, with a weapon he hadn’t trained on, and shooting out beyond 400 meters. He needed to hit ones outside the walls. They were there
to save the world – not themselves.
What happened to them didn’t matter now.
But what they did in their last moments sure mattered.
Mainly, Elliot was trying to make these shots with all the weight in the world on his shoulders.
“I can’t do it,” he said, lowering the rifle.
“Sure, you can,” Ali said, utterly calm, and from right beside him. “I’ve seen you do it. In the sniper OP.”
She stepped forward and drew her katana from her back in a blur, as gunfire rang out below them, tearing into a Foxtrot flying through the air toward them – and which Ali sliced diagonally in half in midair in the same motion as the left-handed draw. The two halves flew harmlessly around either side of her and Elliot, and sailed out into the Common below.
Voice exactly the same, Ali said, “Take a breath. Remember what I taught you. And forget your training.”
Another Foxtrot slammed into the structure below them, its arms hanging onto the edge, one of its hands actually on Elliot’s boot. Ali hacked both arms off in one swing, and the rest of it fell down below for the others to finish. Ali didn’t even look down. She knew Homer had it.
“Deep breath,” she said again, still unperturbed.
* * *
Yanking on his own short sword, which had gotten stuck in an eye socket, Handon flipped his Vorax knife into an overhand grip and jammed it into a second eye socket slightly behind him. Pulling both blades free, he shot a quick glance up to the top of the stairwell structure, clocking Ali’s body language. She didn’t seem worried – so he didn’t worry.
Then he scanned the rooftop around him.
No, strike that, he thought. He was actually worried. They were just about out of time, their position under threat – and soon it would be in serious trouble. The dead had reached the level of the rooftop on one side, were threatening the other three – and, at any given moment, defenders were now chasing down two or three Foxtrots rampaging in their rear, in the center of their defensive perimeter. And a perimeter didn’t mean that much when Foxtrots could just leap over it.
Few of the survivors could be infected now, but Foxtrots were mean, and dangerous, and with everyone black on ammo and having to fight hand-to-hand, men and women were going down with disabling and in some cases fatal injuries: arterial bleeds, throats torn out, disembowelments.
No one was going to have time to turn anyway.
Because they were about to lose the rooftop.
Something had to change.
Handon moved to the rear to confer with Homer at the stairwell, but got intercepted by Park just before he reached it. Rainwater dotting his eyeglasses, the scientist looked up at Handon – while holding open a white cardboard box with a dozen glass vials inside. Handon looked down, then back up.
“This the stuff that makes Foxtrots attack other dead?”
“Affirmative.”
Handon sheathed his knife and picked up a vial.
Aliyev spoke from behind Park, down on the deck, face pale, voice unsteady. “Hey, brother, we do not want to be within a mile of one of those things when it kicks off. Trust me.”
Handon didn’t trust him – he didn’t know him, and he definitely wasn’t his brother. But he did trust Park, and he sure as hell trusted Homer, who stepped over from the stairwell, not lowering his rifle.
“He’s got a point,” Homer said. “Yes, they tear through the dead like a hurricane – but they like the living just as much, and they’re impossible to hit with one of those vials at anything but point-blank range. And inside that range is all of us. Just one of those things loose up here will tear through everyone on the rooftop in seconds. We’ll all go down.” He smiled. “The dead shortly afterward.”
Handon considered all this for two seconds.
Then he felt a tug on his sleeve. When he looked down, an eight-year-old boy was looking up at him. Handon had never seen him before, but he somehow looked extremely familiar. And when he spoke, Handon knew exactly who this was.
“Don’t worry too much about what happens to us,” the boy said. “Worry about what kind of world we leave behind.”
Handon shook his head in disbelief. This had to be Aiden Ainsley – Captain Ainsley’s eldest son. Moreover, with what he had said, words Handon had definitely heard before, it was precisely like the second coming of Ainsley. In the most real sense, he was somehow right there with them on this rooftop – at the very end, as he’d been there, sacrificing himself, at the beginning. And why the hell not? Henno certainly had been, on the plane, in the med wing, up on the walls…
And he was also right – both father and son were.
Handon looked back up. “What’s the delivery system?”
Homer and Park answered in sync: “Smash to the face.”
“How fast does it take effect?”
Park said, “Five seconds – from exposure to Exorcist.”
Homer nodded. “My experience as well.”
Park added, “And they go dormant in the last couple of seconds before they kick off.”
Handon squinted in thought for another two seconds, concentrating fiercely even as the chaos swirled around them – and even as Homer fired four rounds over his shoulder, dropping something coming in behind him, then reloaded.
He hit his radio, on Alpha’s channel. “Pred, Handon.”
“Yeah, boss.”
“I need you. Bring Juice. Put together a tiger team of four other huge guys and meet me in the middle.”
“No problem. What’s the tasking for the team?”
Handon smiled. “Being huge. Brief you in person.” He looked up at Park. “You’re on me – bring those.” Then he looked down at Aiden Ainsley and pushed his soaking hair out of his eyes, then started hustling him back toward what passed for safety in the center, Park behind them. They’d only gotten a few steps when Homer called after him. When Handon turned, Homer tossed him the British sharpshooter rifle – maybe the last loaded weapon up there. He caught it with his free hand.
And he turned to face forward – to play out the endgame.
The End
CentCom – SHQ Rooftop, Top of Stairwell
Elliot fired again.
And he hit. But it was a body shot, totally pointless. The round broke, but the MZ and HRIG would just be dripping down the dead man’s clothing, extremely unlikely to infect it.
He took a breath. Fired again – a miss.
Fired again – and a hit!
He almost smiled – but as he tracked the Foxtrot leaping around in the distance for the next fifteen seconds, its behavior didn’t change. Nothing. Mentally replaying what he’d seen, he realized he’d hit it in the throat. His smile melted away – along with the tiny pulse of confidence apparent success had kindled. He tried to forget the imposing woman standing beside him in the lashing storm, who was at least not commenting on his spectacular failure, not trying to coach him right now, not jumping in his ear. She was letting him get on with it.
He fired again. Another total miss. Then another.
He was pissing away their irreplaceable bioweapons. And with it humanity’s last hope. He was failing – failing everyone.
Elliot lowered the weapon again and tried to get air into his constricted lungs, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes, ears ringing, skin flushed despite the wet and cold. He’d never been able to save a single person, in all these battles, over what felt like an endless lifetime of trying. What the hell made him think he could save all of humanity? He was the exact last person they should have chosen for this job.
“I’m coming up.” This was Kate from down below.
Ali didn’t even look over, but just raised her voice a little. “Negative, Staff Sergeant. Hold position.” Pistol fire cracked below them, Homer’s boarding axe whistled and thunked, shrieking tore the night, men grunted and hollered – and screamed as they went down and died. Ali patted Elliot gently on the back and lowered her voice again.
“This is all mental. You
’ve just got to fix your head.”
Elliot nodded, and tried to breathe.
Something exploded, spectacularly, down in the Common.
Ali didn’t even look down at it.
“Focus,” she said.
* * *
“Oh, shit.” Even Noise cursed now, as he tracked the arc of the flaming flying Foxtrot with his AA12, discharging a full-auto barrage of buckshot, which dismantled his target in midair.
As before, it came apart in flight and landed in pieces.
But, also as before, it landed on the fueling hose – right at the point where it had been patched together.
Only this time, those pieces were on fire.
Noise lowered his weapon in a blur, sealed the fueling port on the wing tank, pulled the hose clear, and started hauling it away from the aircraft at high speed, while shouting at Hailey over the radio to taxi the damned plane. By the time he was twenty feet away, he could see licking flame racing down the hose – in both directions. LCpl Bird was in full-on panic at the other end, trying to pull the hose clear from the bottom of the tanker truck.
But he wasn’t going to make it.
“Go, go, go!” Noise shouted at the RMP, as he dropped his end and angled for the cab of the truck. In peripheral, he could see two things: Bird complying and legging it – and fire snaking into the tank, and then flashing out of the valve, whooshing out from under both sides of the trailer in great sheets. He hurled himself into the driver’s seat, started the engine, jammed it in gear – then looked out the windshield ruefully.
The truck was not facing in the direction of the airstrip, never mind facing down it. It was pointed in the exact opposite direction. So much for clearing the runway. So be it.
“Temporary setback,” he said, jamming the accelerator.
As the truck bucked and picked up speed, being chased by its own jauntily burning tanker trailer, all 20-plus tons bouncing over the grass of the Common toward the extended walls in the east, Noise reached over, opened the passenger-side door, shoved out his piled-up boxes of shotgun shells…
And dove out after them.
The flaming ghost-rider tanker truck raced away, exploding.
ARISEN_Book Fourteen_ENDGAME Page 54