End Days Super Boxset

by Hayden, Roger

  There was a streak of blood on the kitchen tile, running from where he was shot all the way to the bar counter he lay under. Greg had dealt with bullet wounds before and had some knowledge in how to treat them. His main concern was the bleeding—both internal and external. He had to wrap something around the wound, and he had to do it fast.

  His shattered nerves and ripped flesh were almost too much to bear. He had to get to his van. With his shot leg dragging behind him like an anchor, Greg pulled himself across the kitchen floor to the stove, where there were two dish towels hanging. He yanked them down, trying to control all the burning sensations throughout him. It wasn’t the first time he had to deal with a bullet wound, but he hoped it would be the last.

  He carefully pulled his jeans off, shaking with every movement as the pain shot through his body. Blood flowed from the wound like water from a busted pipe. He tied the two kitchen towels together, placed them over the wound, and tied them around his leg, tightly, to control the pressure.

  He lay there for a moment, trying to keep calm while propping his leg up to drain the flow of blood from his leg toward his head. He began to grow thirsty and knew that he would have to stay hydrated if he had any hope of making it to the van and back. After a moment of lying there, the towels had effectively stopped the bleeding.

  He gritted his teeth and pulled himself up on the counter, snatching the nearest glass and filling it up with water from the faucet. He downed a couple glasses, trying to keep his balance, leaning against the counter without putting pressure on his injured leg.

  “Son of a bitch,” he said in an exhausted tone. The pain traveled back down through his leg, but he remained determined. It was going to be hard, but his only choice was to make it to the van. Whereas he had been shot, he knew that whatever fate awaited Veronica was far worse. He had to get it together if there was any hope of finding her. With a push, Greg slid along the side of the counter, keeping his bad leg slightly raised.

  He continued sliding along the counter to where it met the foyer and then pushed himself against the wall. He reached up and grabbed one of the antique rifles hanging there, put the barrel against the ground, and propped himself up against the buttstock. It was sturdy enough to provide him with just enough balance to get outside.

  From the outside porch to the van was a careful balancing act, but he eventually found himself near Veronica’s Volvo and closer to the back doors of his van. He had packed all that he could and knew that there would be a fair amount of work involved in finding his medical supplies. He pushed forward on the rifle, driving the barrel into the dirt, and then hopped his way to the van where relief awaited.

  It seemed as though Irwin had taken off long ago, but Greg knew that he was shot as well, and it might have been enough to slow them down. As he opened the back doors, he was greeted with a stack of boxes, one of them clearly marked Medical Supplies. His mind filled with relief. It then became a matter of getting the supplies inside.

  He tossed the box onto the ground and pulled a first-aid kit and small emergency bag out. With one hand balancing himself against the rifle and the other cradling the found supplies, Greg hobbled back into the house, fighting the pain every step of the way.

  When he finally got back inside, Greg made his way into the bathroom. Once inside, he smacked the light switch on and nearly fell onto the bathroom floor. The tub was in sight, and he leaned himself against the sturdy bathroom counter. He was wearing only his shirt and underwear with two dishtowels wrapped around his leg and a trail of blood running down from the wound. He made his way to the tub and turned the bathtub faucet on. Water spat out and began to fill the tub.

  With his medical kit nearby, he pulled his shirt and jeans off and fell into the tub. The water immediately began to turn a rusty red. From his medical kit, he pulled out a syringe of anesthetic, cotton balls, and disinfectant. He injected the syringe into his thigh, pulled the towel off his wound, and began to clean the wound with peroxide, the sting sending shocks up his body.

  With no pain medication, he had nothing but determination to push him through the ordeal. After cleaning the wound, he knew he had a choice to make: to grab his tweezers and pull the bullet out, or simply finish the wound and stitch it up. He wasn’t a man who liked to walk around with bullet fragments lodged in his insides, so he opted for the former. The bullet had missed his femoral artery, striking slightly to the side and above his knee. He had been very lucky. Noticing that it was a flesh wound and little more, Greg prepared himself for the worst part. He grabbed a pair of tweezers from his medical bag and dug through his flesh for the bullet. The pain was intense, and he wished that he had downed some of Tilda’s liquor beforehand.

  After a long ordeal, Greg managed to pull out the small bullet, clean the wound, and dress it with some fresh gauze. He dried himself off and hobbled into the living room, wearing only a towel. He had a mission, but he couldn’t see himself immediately rushing into his van to chase after the man who had bested him. Even if he wanted to, his body wouldn’t let him.

  Everything had happened so fast. Greg was alone in an empty house. He still didn’t know where Aunt Tilda had gone. After downing some antibiotics, he fell onto the couch and rested there, trying to keep his heavy eyelids from falling shut.

  The wound had accelerated his tiredness, making him feel weaker, perhaps vulnerable. He lay on the couch, trying to resist falling asleep, but his body wouldn’t let him. He called out Veronica’s name as his eyes shut and he drifted off.

  When he awoke, it was morning. The house was empty just as it had been the night before. Veronica came to mind at once, and he suddenly felt a wave of adrenaline come over him. He lifted himself off the couch and tried his best not to put any pressure on his leg. He felt a slight pain, but the mission became no less clear: he had to get Veronica. He hobbled to his van, the bright sun hitting his face, and pulled out his bug-out bag.

  There was still no sign of Tilda, and Greg could only assume the worst. Something had happened in the basement, and he had to investigate. After he brought his bug-out bag into the house and pulled out a set of fresh clothes, he got dressed and slowly went downstairs.

  It didn’t take long to find Tilda’s wrapped body, and Greg surmised that he was dealing with a psychopath. Veronica was in more danger than he could have even imagined. He came back upstairs after finding a cane that had probably belonged to Veronica’s uncle. The time to bury Tilda would come later—he had already wasted too much time as it was. One thing he was sure of was that he wasn’t going to let anyone stand in his way. He would kill them all if he had to. Irwin had taken Veronica somewhere, and Greg went with the only lead he had: Base 42.

  After he dressed, he went out to his van, which had enough weapons and ammunition to take down an army of men. Time was of the essence, and he started the engine, noticing that he had a half tank left. More fuel would be necessary; Sun Valley was a large place. He would find more fuel or siphon it if he had to from both vehicles that were parked nearby. After that, he was determined to find Base 42 and rescue Veronica from the man whom he planned to kill without hesitation.

  American Epidemic-The Resistance

  Boiling Point

  Base 42 Sun Valley, Nevada:

  Nearly one thousand residents from the surrounding area, including Reno, had taken refuge at a small military outpost called Base 42. Some had willingly climbed aboard military trucks to be transported to the base while others were ordered to abandon their homes and be taken to the base for quarantine. It didn't take long before the base reached maximum capacity and the disease began to spread on site. The base itself consisted of several operational buildings, hangars, tool shops, a mess hall, and rows of sleeping quarters.

  Before being converted to a quarantine station, Base 42 operated as a highly secretive Air Force base for drone repair, holding, and maintenance. The drones had been relocated to make way for eleven Ebola treatment centers.

  The costly $300 million-dollar project
was put in place as a precautionary measure due to some very real concerns of Ebola spreading. By the time the outbreak was in full force, the National Guard was ordered to transport civilians to the base, plus the costs of all the other logistical measures. Everything was in place, the military had control, and residents were being treated and quarantined. They were provided food, shelter, and treatment. Hospital personnel and chemical specialists were on-hand to monitor symptoms and ensure that the virus could be contained. Three weeks after the outbreak, all of this changed.

  It had been a long night and there was another hundred or so people who arrived at the base late at night ready to be processed through, but the soldiers running the base had been driven to the point of exhaustion.

  The treatment centers were at overcapacity with more infected than they knew what to do with. The struggle was in keeping infected patients away from non-infected ones and minimizing the fear of contagion.

  Tensions were high when somewhere in the long waiting line, a man began to cough, creating an immediate panic as the crowd began to move away from him. The soldiers tried to maintain order. They did their best to keep the newcomers from running into unauthorized areas—places occupied by those who had already been cleared. Shots were fired into the air, but the panic only seemed to escalate. They had to be stopped. With little time to react, the soldiers in the towers called in for instructions.

  Were they to open fire?

  The voice over the radio told them “yes.”

  ***

  The shots awoke Bill Hodder from his crowded quarters where at least ten other men were packed closely together—some sleeping on beds and some sleeping on the floor. Others slowly jerked awake too. The loud pops were alarming, but it was the screams that followed that were the most disturbing.

  "What the hell's going on out there?" one man asked from his pile of blankets on the floor.

  "I don't know," Bill said, rising from his bed. He went to the only window in the dark room and looked out into the empty airfield beyond. The screams eventually died out, and then silence filled the room once more. It wasn't hard for him, or any other man in the room, to reach a conclusion.

  "Newcomers," he continued, scratching at his bare chest. He tugged at his shorts and began to walk back to his bed.

  "What about them?" asked Marcus from his bed, another man, like Hodder, who had been there since the beginning.

  "They keep bringing them here. Maybe they’re just now realizing there’s too many of us. Maybe they have orders to kill us all," Hodder replied.

  "That’s insane,” said Alex, a lanky man in his late 50s who lay sprawled in his spot on the floor.

  Hodder dressed and began to pace, his mind full of grandeur. He had been considering the right moment to make his move, and it seemed as though the time was near. Others began to wake up, sitting up and trying to figure out what was going on. "I don't think we can trust the military to protect us anymore. We have to do something before it’s too late,” Hodder told them. He grabbed his jacket and walked out of the room as everyone looked at each other, confused.

  Hodder walked down the hall lit from above by emergency lights, striding past closed doors of rooms just like his own, all equally crowded. In the beginning, most people had jumped at the opportunity to go to Base 42. It promised a safe haven from the scourge of infection, but Bill could see that they had all been hopelessly naïve. He was convinced the disease would spread with the continual influx of outsiders.

  Hodder had already seen infected people in the streets of his affluent neighborhood, their bodies twisted in agony. He had seen the overwhelmed hospitals on TV. Seen the desperate medical personnel fleeing and leaving behind their coworkers to the mercy of an unstoppable virus. He had seen the bodies in the streets and the burning, rioting, and looting—an utter breakdown within a few short weeks. He was committed to ensuring that neither the plague nor the despair would follow him.

  With treatment centers full of infected patients only a couple of hundred yards away from where they slept, Bill had deep concerns. He stopped at the exit door and hesitated. He could hear movement, distant shouts, and combat boots striking the pavement, hurrying. With a deep breath, he slowly pushed the door open.

  The smell of gunfire was in the air. In the distance, he could see the treatment centers—long warehouse frames covered in clear tarp. The silhouettes of patients in their beds crammed wall to wall. Closer to his building, almost hidden by darkness, lay several bodies facedown on the pavement. There seemed to be about twenty in all, motionless men and women with open gunshot wounds in their backs and blood pooling underneath them.

  The soldiers, dressed in grayish-tan uniforms and matching helmets, moved with a purpose, keeping their rifles at the ready and herding people back to the processing hangar. Other soldiers approached the bodies carrying flashlights and ChemLights, trying to search for vital signs. They found none. A Humvee suddenly pulled up with its bright lights on and engine booming. A higher-ranking soldier exited the vehicle on the passenger side and immediately began to chastise his subordinates.

  "What the hell happened here?"

  "Things got a little out of control, Sergeant," the young and visibly nervous private said.

  "Who gave the order to open fire?"

  The private hesitated.

  "Who gave the order?" the sergeant shouted.

  "It came over the radio. S-somebody must have notified the tower. The crowd wouldn’t listen to us. They hadn’t been tested and cleared yet."

  The sergeant pushed aside the soldier and began to survey the carnage. He had little to make of it, only that the incident had happened on his watch and that there would be repercussions. Bill watched from afar. The climate was ripe for his plan. The murder of the unarmed civilians had changed everything. He'd turn the people against the military, one way or the other. Then the base would be his.

  ***

  There was little that fewer than fifty soldiers could do to keep control in a base of a thousand people. They manned the guard towers and the front gate and provided general security of the base. Civilians were prohibited from carrying firearms. While the soldiers had their hands full running the base, civilian volunteers were needed at the Ebola treatment centers: the one place where no one wanted to go.

  Finding volunteers to assist the overburdened medical staff was a chore in itself and few people, even the most selfless among them, wanted the assignment, no matter what protective gear was provided. Too many medical personnel had been infected. The need for volunteers created a constant conflict between the controlling military force and civilians. And it was something that Hodder was ready to fully exploit.

  The next morning, he walked out of his building and onto the hard concrete pavement. There were still some red streaks on the ground where the bodies from the previous night had fallen, faded but visible. Shell casings lay in patches of dirt and weeds next to the building.

  He looked up at the first guard tower to his far right and waved. From under the dome of the tower, the soldier didn’t respond. His attention was elsewhere. Hodder looked to the one to his closer right and waved as well. The soldier in the tower waved back and looked away. Hodder scanned the area around him, making a mental note of each soldier in his path. Not all of them were on duty. Some worked night shifts and slept during the day. His focus was on their numbers.

  Hodder looked up and squinted into the sunlight as a soldier approached him in haste. It was his inside man, a young and ambitious soldier named Specialist Christopher Santos. Hodder had discovered that Santos was largely disgruntled at his superiors and offered him an opportunity to turn the tables against them.

  "Que pasa, mi amigo?" Santos asked, approaching Hodder in full uniform, an M16 rifle slung around his arm. He had a tan, round face and a thin mustache.

  Hodder leaned in. "It's time," he said.

  Santos nodded in excitement. "For real? You know they mowed down a whole lot of them last night."

  H
odder looked around cautiously. Civilians were beginning to shuffle out of their buildings, waking up for the day. A line of joggers suddenly ran by. The more people he saw, the more he felt the challenge of the enormous task before them.

  "Just be ready, Santos. You know your role. We're going to need weapons. We're going to need diversions."

  "Yeah, man, I told you, I got it."

  Hodder clutched his arm and stared into his eyes. "Listen. We mess this up, or if anything goes wrong, we’re going to pay a price. You have to be ready for that.” He released Santos. "Now I need you to take me to Major Greene."

  Santos looked around. "Now?"

  "Yes, now. I’m going to need a military escort. Let's go," Hodder said, gesturing toward a small building with a chain-link fence around it. He pulled a surgical mask from his jacket, placed it on his face, and immediately started walking past the single-story dormitory buildings toward the operations center, located past the hangars and the Ebola treatment centers.

  "You should wear a mask when you go outside," Hodder said, his voice slightly muffled.

  "I can't breathe with those things on," Santos replied.

  Hodder shook his head as they made it past the treatment centers—eleven all lined up in a row—and to the tactical operation center where several antennas were affixed to the roof, stretching far into the cloudy, purplish sky.

  Outside the fence, Santos showed his and Hodder’s IDs to a guard. The guard let them pass through and they walked into a courtyard where an American flag waved proudly from the pole. Santos approached the building, opened the entrance door, and walked in with Hodder following behind.

  Mutiny

  The eleven Ebola treatment centers in the camp were bustling with constant activity and were the places where most of their medical supplies and resources were used. Perhaps the worst job at the centers, however, involved the disposal of human remains. In order to transport remains safely and discreetly, two assigned soldiers dressed in complete protective gear would load bodies into the back of a large military cargo truck, then drive a mile away from the base to a spot where a large burn pit awaited them. It was a standard routine, and it wouldn’t be long before they made their next trip.