The Flood

by Michael Stephen Fuchs

  And that figure was Sarah Cameron.

  Judy was also biting and snapping at the dead who were going for her.

  Almost shocked into inaction, nonetheless the three in the boat got their rifles up, and started shooting around their teammate, and their other teammate. In a few seconds, they had destroyed all the dead in the vicinity. And in a few more, they dragged both Judy and Sarah into the boat.

  The human female flopped down in the bottom, arm draped around the DNA sequencer. She looked like she’d been drowned, resuscitated, and then drowned again. Other than the knife, her weapons and ammo were gone, no doubt shucked at some point to keep her face on the right side of the water. The canine female lay down beside her, and Sarah reached up weakly and stroked her wet fur.

  Too exhausted to speak, she just thought:

  Okay. Maybe other women aren’t always so bad.

  “Did you see Wesley?” Browning asked urgently.

  She shook her head and tried to speak. “No. Not after the flood.”

  “Could he still be alive?”

  Another head shake. “I don’t know how I survived – and I was farther from the water tank when it opened up. Plus he ran into the middle of an inferno to get the rocket off in the first place. Even if he survived the fire, his armor would have dragged him under the water. He said that himself, before he went out.” She paused to take a few deep breaths. “I’m sorry,” she said, finally.

  Burns shook his head in awe. “Wesley knew exactly what he was doing.”

  Browning squinted down at her. “How the hell did you survive?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. I thought I was done for. But then I remembered there’s someone I need to see again. And apologize to.”

  Burns and Jenson reached down, each grabbing one of her arms, and helped her up into a sitting position against the inflated side of the boat.

  Burns clapped her on the shoulder.

  “Not us, man. Not us.”

  Washed Clean by the Flood

  The Red Sea

  In another ten minutes, the newly enlarged group of Mutant survivors had motored out to the GPS coordinates of their extraction point. Not long after that, they heard the whumping rotors of the Seahawk coming in at them from out of the blackness.

  For a few seconds it looked like the heavy seas churned up by the helo might capsize them before it could rescue them. But soon enough they had winched up both the DNA sequencer and the dog, secured the boat to the sling-load line – and then all made their way up that same perilously twisting rope ladder.

  Now the four exhausted survivors lay sprawled around the blacked-out cabin of the helo, listening to its engines surge as it banked and turned and headed off – but at what seemed well below the top speed they had all marveled at on the way in. When Browning looked out the open door at the land, he realized something was wrong.

  He grabbed an ICS headset and spoke to the pilots. “Hey! Why are we flying north – away from the carrier?”

  The response came back instantly. “We’re picking up your team leader, obviously. What – can’t you see him?”

  Browning rushed forward and stuck his head into the flight deck, the other three right behind him and shoving to get through. The co-pilot unclipped his NVGs from his helmet, handed them to Browning – and pointed ahead of them and down.

  As he put the NVGs to his face, the undifferentiated blackness resolved into green details of ruffled sea and cloudy sky, and he could even see the seam between them at the horizon. And a little lower and closer than that he could also easily make out… a tiny light, winking on and off, like at the top of a lonely tower.

  “It’s your lieutenant’s IR strobe,” the co-pilot said.

  Browning’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. Then it transformed into a wide and brilliant smile. When he turned around, the others all looked the same.

  Even Judy seemed delighted, picking up on the mood, and barked once.

  Hell, she looked happiest of all.

  * * *

  Blackness – above and below, and all around. The cool night, and the cooler water, sloshing rhythmically over the surface of the wooden door and soothing what felt like a bad sunburn on his exposed skin – hell, even on the bits that weren’t exposed. It felt like the worst sunburn Wesley ever had.

  But none of that mattered now. Because he was at rest, lying prostrate on his back, arms and legs spreadeagled, just floating through the darkness – riding his door. Mainly, and by far most important, he was able now to just take it easy and catch his damned breath.

  Thank God for that plant door, he thought. And not to mention the fact that doors floated… Well, why the hell not. It worked for Rose in Titanic. Just not for Jack…

  When he had seen that door bobbing through the flood, close to him but not close enough, he hadn’t imagined he could dredge up the strength to swim to it. And he’d already begun to give up, to let go, to let the waters envelop him and submerge him and take all his pains away.

  But as the roiling flood had started to cover his head and take him down… against all expectations, that same image from earlier came back to him again – of Amarie trundling her way across that field with the little girl, running toward safety, fighting to keep them both alive, despite everything they must have faced to have made it that far.

  And suddenly Wesley realized… he could do no less than she had. Somehow Amarie had stayed alive. And so now he had to, too. She was waiting for him, back in Britain. And all he could think was: I’ve got to stay alive – and somehow make it back to her.

  And now he was alive – but completely exhausted, body and soul. In addition to the minor burns on most of his body, he’d also wrenched his lower back somewhere along the way, in all the running and tumbling and diving. And virtually all of his other muscles ached – those in his calves and quads most of all. And he realized now what he could have figured out in advance: he was way too old for this crap.

  But at least he was lying down now. No more running.

  He looked down the length of his body and mustered the energy to pat himself down. He must have gotten more than a little zombie gunk on him along the way – body-checking runners, shooting one in the head from two inches away – but there was none on him now. He figured anything that hadn’t been burned off by the inferno had shortly thereafter been washed clean by the flood.

  Well, one bit of good luck, he thought, letting his head fall back again.

  And then a hand slapped down on his arm.

  Oh, godDAMMit, he thought, reaching across, pulling the hand off him, and dropping it back into the water. Pushing himself up onto his elbows with agonizing effort, he could now see what he already knew: the Red Sea was full of charred undead floaters. And now it looked like the ones closest to him were starting to lock on. Maybe they smelled him. He was half-cooked, after all.

  He exhaled heavily. Maybe I’ll let them make a meal of me. Anything was better than any more damned exertion.

  But then he heard the engines and rotors of what could only be the incoming Seahawk. He looked down his chest at the IR strobe they had given him at the last second on the carrier flight deck. Upon turning it on, he hadn’t seen it doing a damned thing, and still didn’t. But he gathered he wasn’t supposed to, and evidently it worked. And as the sound of the helo rose up into a roar, and started rocking the sea around him, it was joined by a chorus of gunfire.

  Looking up, he couldn’t see very well into the blacked-out cabin, only the muzzle flashes. But he knew well enough what that was – it was his teammates, firing down all around him, shooting to protect him. He could see and hear rounds smacking into floating undead bodies, into the surface of the water – and in one case actually into the top of the door. But he was simply too knackered to be alarmed or afraid.

  He’d had all the fear anybody needed for a whole lifetime. And he had passed through it. Because he’d had no choice.

  Once they cleared up the threat of the floaters, somebod
y threw that treacherous rope ladder down at him. For a second he contemplated trying to climb it. But you know what? he thought. I’ve exerted myself enough for one day. They can just haul my tired old bones up there.

  So he just lay there ignoring the ladder – until they pulled it back up and threw down the winch line. He got the strop wrapped around his waist and secured it, and just hung on as they winched him up. Even as they were hauling him in the open door, the helo was already banking south and accelerating into the night.

  Lying on his back and sucking air, Wesley said, sort of to everyone and no one, “I really am the luckiest Englishman alive.”

  “And the unluckiest,” Sarah said, pulling the strop out from under him.

  “Yes, that too.” He looked up at Sarah. “You look pretty smart now skipping the riot gear.”

  Sarah smiled down at him. “I always look pretty smart.”

  But she knew she’d been wrong on this one in the end. She’d thought she had to atone for her sins with her life. But here she was anyway. Something or someone still wanted her walking this Earth. She would be seeing Handon again after all, a thought that filled her with elation.

  For his part, Wesley just lat flat and unmoving, looking up at the five faces that gazed down on him with care and compassion – four smooth and one furry, which then licked his own face. He struggled to master his voice and said:

  “Thank you. Thank you all.”

  “Hey, you saved us,” Burns said. “We saved you.”

  Browning nodded. “That’s what it means to be a team.”

  “Hey, LT,” Jenson said jauntily. “You look pretty good with no eyebrows…”

  Wesley just closed his eyes and let the wind and engine noise lull him to sleep.

  Team Deathmatch

  Outside Gebilay - 35km Northwest of Hargeisa

  “Cadaver One from Cadaver Two, how copy?”

  Fick was kneeling down in the dark at the edge of the narrow and dusty road that led out of Gebilay, the next little town over. This, their secondary target sight, had proven to be a total bust, exactly the same as Hargeisa. They’d found few dead of any sort, and no locals at all. They were all the same North Africans or Arabs who had been swept in with the giant herds, sweeping all the Somalis out.

  “Cadaver One from Cadaver Two, commo check.”

  Fick looked each way up and down the night-shrouded road, where Brady and Reyes were pulling security on either side of him, their NVGs scanning the blackness from side to side. He was whispering into his mic to keep the noise down, but he knew his two Marines could hear him.

  And he knew what they were thinking.

  Fick stood up. “Just shitty air between here and there. Forget it.” It was true there were a thousand reasons for commo failure – and everyone on the other end being dead was only one of them. Hell, Alpha had been so closely engaged at last contact, they probably just didn’t have the breath to answer.

  “Okay,” Brady said. “So what now?”

  Instead of answering, Fick changed channels. But before he could hail the JFK, to report the dry hole at the secondary site and request instructions, they hailed him first. “Cadaver Two from JFK, how copy?”

  “Cadaver Two, go ahead.”

  “Interrogative: is this Cadaver Two Actual on the line?”

  “Yeah, affirmative. In the flesh.”

  “Hold for Lieutenant Commander Walker.”

  There was a brief pause, then a change to a female voice.

  “Fick, it’s Walker.”

  “Hiya, Doc. Go ahead.”

  Hearing this, Brady and Reyes each stepped closer, craning their heads down toward the radio.

  “Listen. I’m calling with an update about your wounded Marine.”

  Fick just waited for it.

  “I’m sorry. He’d already lost too much blood.”

  “What?” Fick could only manage the single word.

  “He didn’t make it. We did everything we could for him.”

  He couldn’t believe it.

  Graybeard was gone.

  * * *

  Fick tromped up the road through the pitch-black African night. He was vaguely aware of Brady and Reyes following behind him, but he couldn’t face them right now. He’d gotten the team moving up the road, just to get them moving. And he needed a minute here. To think. To grieve. To work this out.

  To get into his own head.

  Or maybe that was the last thing he needed.

  Mainly what he was thinking was that he couldn’t believe it. This was his own personal nightmare coming true – the same nightmare he’d had on the bomber, flying back from Beaver Island. Watching a shadowy, unimaginable terror emerge from out of the trees and take one of his Marines. And now, he felt sure, the impossible, unendurable part had started:

  Now he was going to watch his remaining Marines go down one at a time.

  Graybeard was hardly the first man Fick had lost in combat. Far from it. But Graybeard was in a whole different category – a category of one. He was supposed to live forever, supposed to be unkillable. And he was the one who was going to make it through to the end of this thing. Out of all of them, he was supposed to make it.

  Perhaps worst of all, his death had been pointless. Graybeard’s life hadn’t bought them anything – they were no closer to their mission objective, to Patient Zero, than they’d been when they’d landed in this Godforsaken place.

  It was only one down so far.

  But Fick could feel it in his bones. It was coming. And it was only a matter of time. Soon, he would be on his own. And he will have lost the whole team. And not just this fire team out with him now – but everyone on Teams 1 and 2, A Company, 2nd Marine Special Operations Battalion. Everyone he had started the ZA with.

  Fick was running out of Marines. The drawer was almost empty.

  There had been those taken down – one here, two there – in all those scavenging missions over the first two years, keeping the population of the strike group alive. Then a handful fell in the mutiny and outbreak… even as their youngest Marine, the Kid, Chesney, was left behind on Beaver Island. More in the Battle of the JFK on the flight deck, including another grand old man, Gunny Blane.

  Then Coulson, burned alive after that Russian missile strike.

  But now with Graybeard going down, that not only meant that any of them could die. It seemed to Fick to mean that everyone WAS GOING to die – that each of them had now been marked for death. Graybeard had been the oldest member, by far, of the MARSOC teams. He had seen and done it all. But now Fick was left as the Grand Old Man of the outfit. And he was already feeling a hell of a lot older, and a hell of a lot more lonely.

  Older and more alone than he’d ever imagined he could feel.

  He slowed his relentless forward march, came to a stop, and finally turned around to face the other two. Brady and Reyes came in close and flipped their NVGs up. Graybeard’s death had obviously shaken them, too. And as Fick looked into the sad dark eyes of the younger Reyes, and blue ones of the even younger Brady, he realized he was going to have to pull his shit together – and right now. For them. Now his job was to keep the younger guys focused on their jobs, and combat effective – and keep them alive if he could. Maybe that was the most important thing.

  And as he looked into their eyes, his vision went long and he momentarily saw an even younger pair looking back at him. They were the fair, pale blue eyes of Emily, his friend waiting for him back on the carrier.

  And that vision also reminded him of his duty.

  Everyone left alive was still counting on them to get this done.

  He took a deep breath. “C’mon,” he growled. “We’ve still got a job to do.”

  “What now, skipper?” Reyes asked. He was obviously desperate for some kind of guidance and leadership. Brady wasn’t far behind him.

  Fick nodded. “Now we go find Alpha. And we all go find this magical first dead guy. And then we get the fuck out of this shithole and go home.”
<
br />   Brady and Reyes both nodded. That sounded good to them.

  “And after that, we’re going to spend the rest of our lives playing Call of Duty team deathmatch, on our final posting – to Camp Couch, Fort Living Room.”

  Brady and Reyes both grinned in the darkness.

  “Now move out,” Fick grumbled.

  Uneasy Lies the Head

  Summit of Mount Shimbiris

  Ali was on overwatch. She felt a lot more comfortable there. She always did.

  No stress, no awkwardness, and no dramas – between her and Homer; or, worse, between Handon and Henno. Just her and her rifle, and the rarefied upper air, and long and uninterrupted sight lines.

  She’d positioned herself up on the bare stone crown of the mountain.

  And right now, with the morning sun rising over it, nothing was moving on that mountain – or anywhere down below it, as far as she could see. From here, the very highest point in all of Somalia, she had perfect views out to the Gulf of Aden to the north, and over the Cal Madow forests that blanketed the shoulders and slopes of the peak in every other direction. She couldn’t see into all the thick sections of trees and bush.

  But she could see enough.

  And so now she could just lie on her stomach behind her rifle and do her job. As well as zone out, relax, and reflect.

  After their escape from the imploding multi-species zombie vortex that was Ali’s hometown of Hargeisa, they had faced an eight-hour overland drive, west and then north, back up to the coast and onto the slopes of Mount Shimbiris, the tallest peak in the country. There they had been welcomed into the forest encampment of some Army Special Forces guys who had, utterly unexpectedly, turned up to pull their asses out of the fire – literally, from that burning and collapsing hospital.

  And it was not just any Special Forces ODA – it was the legendary Triple Nickel, and Juice’s old team.