by W. J. Lundy
“Let’s go,” Dan said, not looking back as he moved along the trail in the direction the men had come.
Joe stepped forward after Dan, and then paused, feeling faint; he dropped to the side of the trail and vomited. He buried his head in his hands, his watering eyes blurring his vision. Dan reached down, grabbed him, and pulled him to his feet. “You’ll have time for that later, let’s go!”
Joe took in a deep breath and held it then followed Dan close, trying to silence himself and control his breathing. They cut sharply back into the tall ferns. Moving back toward the driveway, Joe could barely make out the metallic skins of the vehicles ahead. He could hear Chuck screaming instructions to his men and the occasional burst of the MAC-9. Dan froze and pointed ahead; just yards away behind a thick oak, a man stood looking toward the embankment. He held a rifle and leaned out, fired a quick shot, then ducked back behind the tree to reload.
Joe lifted his hand to Dan’s shoulder; he handed off the shotgun then readied the rope battle mace in his right hand. He walked ahead slowly, lifting and dropping his feet quietly. The man at the tree worked the bolt on his rifle, spun out, fired, and again ducked behind the cover of the tree. Joe was within five feet of the man when suddenly he turned and put his back to the tree. Joe froze and somehow the man did not see him; he was too focused on searching his jacket pocket for more ammo. After pulling out a handful of loose rounds, he struggled to straighten them in his hand when his eyes wandered up and saw Joe, now just feet away, stalking him.
He dropped the rifle and attempted to raise his hands as a whine left his lips. Joe ignored the plea and stepped off hard with his left foot. Swinging swiftly, the mace connected with the man’s temple. His legs buckled and he dropped straight to his knees before leaning back to rest his body against the tree. The man’s head tilted awkwardly, the neck obviously broken. Dan shuffled forward, leaned over the man, and then used the heel of his boot to kick him flat to the ground. He grabbed the rifle by its stock and tossed it clear of the body. He handed the shotgun back to Joe and led them toward the parked vehicles.
Dan dropped to his belly and crawled toward the parked trucks. Joe fell in beside him, staying low so his body stayed concealed by the tall ferns on the forest floor. They could see movement now—people darting left and right on the other side of the driveway, the guards’ crossfire still taking a toll on the strangers. Chuck’s screaming continued, his voice becoming more panicked as he lost control. Two men ran from the far side of the driveway and took cover behind the second truck, exposing their backs to Joe and Dan. Dan pointed at them and whispered, “Take the left.”
When Dan rose up to his knees, Joe did the same beside him before they leveled their weapons and fired. Dan’s round went high, taking his man in the right shoulder. The round then went through and punched a hole in the truck’s fender. He fell against it, streaking blood on the truck as he dropped. Joe fired at the second man, the buck shot eating earth from his low miss. The stranger turned; with shock in his eyes, he fired blindly back at them as he ran back toward the third truck.
Dan leaned out and positioned himself, firing into the direction the man fled. Chuck continued to shout panic-stricken orders. Joe heard another volley of the MAC-9. The last truck’s engine started and doors slammed shut; Joe started to rise to run after them, but Dan reached out and pulled him back down. “Let ’em go,” he said.
“But they’ll get away.”
The truck backed down the drive, splashing as it went. They heard it crash through the brush at the entrance then gravel crushed as the truck spun its tires, entering the cut. Dan jumped up to his feet and jogged forward. He went directly for the downed man leaning against the second truck. Dan tossed the man’s shotgun away then grabbed at his wounded shoulder, pulling him into the open and dumping him on his back.
The man’s eyes fluttered. Dan ignored him as he searched his shirt pockets, placing everything on the man’s belly. He slapped at his pants, removing anything he found. Joe knelt next to the wounded man and sifted through the pile. An old wallet, pictures of a woman and kids wrapped in plastic, a pack of cigarettes, and loose pile of cough drops. Dan pulled his knife and reached at the man’s collar. Joe thought he was going to slit the prisoner’s throat when he brought the blade to the man’s neck. He tugged at the collar and inserted the razor-sharp blade into the man’s shirt then cut downward and split the sleeve, exposing the man’s wound.
Dan cut away another wad of the man’s shirt, then balled it up and stuffed it into the wound; kicking violently, the man howled and screamed. “Well, hell, you do have some fight left in ya,” Dan laughed. He folded the man over, exposing his back. “Help me hold ’em,” Dan said.
Joe reached down and clenched the man’s neck while pressing his knees against his thighs to still him as best as he could. Dan took another wad of material and stuffed it into the exit wound. Again, the man kicked and flailed. Dan stood and grabbed the man under his good arm. “On your feet, sweetheart,” Dan shouted.
The man looked up drunkenly, his face pale and dripping with sweat. He struggled to stand but his legs would not cooperate. Joe grabbed his other side and together they dragged the prisoner back to the cattle gate. Joe prepared to lower the man softly when Dan released him without warning, causing his body to slump and collapse against the ground, his face hitting the gravel. Dan reached down, grabbed the back of the prisoner’s shirt, and dragged him against the gate so that he was sitting up.
Dan slapped him on the dirt-covered cheek with his open palm and said, “Wake up.”
The man’s head tipped back; his eyes parted slightly to look up into Dan’s face.
“I stopped the bleeding, but you’re still going to die if you don’t get some help.”
The man stared up at Dan, his eyes squinting. “What do you want from me?”
Chapter 20
Flames burnt bright as the brush crackled in the intense heat. The men sat hunkered down in a dry streambed, huddled together with weapons pointed out. Enraged by the inferno, the Primals ran in chaotic packs, moving in all directions and seeming intent on escaping the heat.
“Out of the pan and into the fire,” Brad whispered.
Brooks looked back at him; he put two fingers to his eyes and pointed into the brightest part of the flames straight ahead. “Through there is a pedestrian gate; I remember it from our runs. An open field is on the far side—it’s a natural firebreak.”
“Yeah, but how do we get through that wall of fire.”
“Stick to the trail… it runs right up the middle there. We get through that, jump the gate, and we’re in the clear,” Brooks explained.
A thunderous crashing of brush turned Brad around. Engulfed in flames, a swarm of crazies burst from the brush. They charged directly at the hunkered-down men. Axe let loose a long stream of automatic weapons fire. Some fell, but the majority of the mob continued on. A large man, his face ashen and black with soot, broke away from the group. Gunfire exploded all around Brad as the man dove and caught him in the chest. Brad was flung back off his feet. He wrapped the Primal in his arms and tried to throw him away, but with his feet off the ground, he lost leverage. He continued to roll, the stench of burnt flesh and singed hair filling his nose as they turned away.
Landing on top, Brad managed to gain the dominate position. The man lunged up, his teeth snapping through burnt and blistered lips. Unable to release the man from his grip, Brad pushed up hard and rained down a heavy closed fist directly to the thing’s face. He felt the nose give way, the cartilage crushing under his knuckles. Brad swung down again; striking just below the eye, the crazy’s orbital bone took the brunt of it. The Primal paused, the blow momentarily shocking it. Brad used the brief delay to retrieve the hawk from his hip. Leaning back and with a two-handed blow, he landed the spike square into the creature’s head.
Brad pulled and retrieved the hawk. Before he could stand, he was yanked forward from behind. Brooks had him by the collar and was dragg
ing him. The other men were in a dead sprint, moving away from them toward the trailhead. Brad swam, struggling to get his feet underneath him. Just as his toes made contact and he lunged forward, Brooks tumbled forward, a female Primal attached to his back. Brad slipped, ducked his head, and dove into a roll. He came up, quickly caught his bearing, and lashed out, catching the female between the shoulder blades.
More were on them; a Primal grabbed at Brad’s arm. Unable to ready his rifle because the sling had twisted and wrapped tightly to his body, Brad pulled his sidearm. He stuffed the barrel into the man’s abdomen and fired. Looking to his right, he saw Brooks lashing away with his fighting knife, hacking and slashing at the charging creatures. Brad pushed the dead crazy away from him, forced his M4 out and the sling off his arm, and then leveled his rifle. He fired twice, ran to Brooks, and fired another salvo before a stream of tracers ripped past him just to his left, the rounds so close they snapped and zipped by his head. Brad quickly rolled toward Brooks and looked behind him. Axe was kneeling at the trailhead, laying down fire with the SAW.
Brad scrambled forward on all fours. He rose to his feet and grabbed Brooks by the wrist, pulling him up behind him. Together, they sprinted to the trailhead under the cover of Axe’s fire; the heat was more extreme out of the dry creek bed. It hit Brad hard, taking away his air, making it hard to breathe. He pulled the balaclava up over his chin and put on his dark glasses, already feeling the flash of the heat against his skin. They jogged down the path until they found a closed gate. Roberts and Boone were on the far side, their rifles leaning over the edge and firing precariously close to Brad, knocking down the pursuing Primal.
The fence was less than six feet tall, but the gate was much shorter. Axe ran directly at it, pushed on the top, vaulting himself over and tumbling to the opposite side. Brad and Brooks followed close behind. They could see the open field now. Just over the size of two football fields, it was covered in thick green grass and patches of open gravel. The fire had avoided it and went around on both sides, leaving the once green grass smoldering at the edges. Brooks grunted and turned the others in its direction. They jogged directly to the center of the field and collapsed to their backs, gasping for air.
Brad pulled at the drinking tube of his CamelBak and took a long gulp, feeling that the bag was almost dry. “How much farther?” he asked, looking up at the smoke-filled sky.
Roberts pushed himself into a seated position, searching the tree lines. “Depends on where they pulled back to. If they collapsed to the airfield, we still got some traveling to do.”
“That’d be most likely—huh,” Boone grunted and dropped to his belly, taking Roberts with him.
Brooks took notice of Boone’s quick actions and rolled to his side. “What is it? What did ya see, Stretch?” he asked.
Boone crawled to the edge of their tiny perimeter, looking out across the long field. “There, near the tree line, do you see them?”
The team pressed their bodies into the tall grass to hide; Brad tried to move and position himself to follow the soldier’s line of sight. At the opposite end of the field, the fire burned bright in the trees. Smoke swilled up and rolled into the sky, pushed by the heat of the flames. He searched left and right then froze. Clustered together—much like Brad was with his own group—he spotted a group of five men, dressed in black. They slowly emerged from a break in the burning brush. One was looking to the sky and speaking into a handheld radio. The group walked several meters into the tall grass and dropped down.
Brad turned to look at Brooks, who was already examining them through the optics on his rifle. “Is it the same group?” Brad asked.
“Got to be; why else would they be here?” Brooks said.
The man with the radio dropped his arm and moved across the group. He pressed in to talk to the others then pointed in Brad’s direction. They bunched up and stepped off, moving to the center of the field. When they picked up the pace to a slow jog headed straight for them, Brad raised his rifle. “What do we do?” he whispered.
“Wait ’til they get closer; if we have to, we’ll take them out.”
Still a hundred feet away, the group suddenly stopped. Two turned back to cover their rear while the other two covered the flanks. The man holding the radio dropped back to rest in the center of the group then put the radio back to his ear. The man pulled the radio away and swept the field ahead; he seemed to look right at Brad’s team. His hand dropped to his belt and he pulled a smoke canister then tossed it just meters away; the canister popped and bled a thick stream of yellow smoke.
The distinctive whoomp, whoomp of a Blackhawk helicopter faded in; high in the smoke, it still couldn’t be seen. “Ahh, shit,” Brooks said.
The smoke over their heads began to swirl and the helicopter dropped in on top of them. It hovered overhead then spun, putting its nose into the direction of the wind. Brad looked around; the rest of his men had their faces in the ground, avoiding the smoke and dust being thrown out in all directions.
“Should we fire on them?” Brad yelled over the sound of the helo.
Brooks reached out and pushed Brad’s barrel down. “Hell, no! If they don’t see us, let them go; the door gunner will chew us up!”
The Blackhawk hovered close then touched down to the ground. Brad used his hand to hold his glasses tightly to his eyes. The group of five men ran with their heads down directly to the bird and disappeared inside. The whine of the helicopter increased and it lifted off, flying directly at the trees then arcing up and away at the last moment before disappearing into the heavy smoke. All that remained of the men was the dwindling smoke grenade.
“Let’s go; we need to move,” Brooks said as he got back to his feet. He took off across the field, heading in the direction the men had arrived from. Brad watched as he scouted the ground then found the trail that led into the burning wood line. “This should take us to the garrison area; don’t slow down, and stay on me ’til we’re clear of the fire,” Brooks said. Brad removed his helmet and pulled his balaclava up over his ears and face then watched as the rest of the men did the same thing. Brooks looked back to make sure they were prepped then flashed a thumbs up. “Let’s do this,” he said, putting his head down and sprinting onto the trail.
Brad followed close behind Brooks, keeping his eyes glued to the trail. They moved quickly, pulling each other along. Fortunately, the trail was wide and because it was lined with already scorched grass, it kept the flames at bay and away from them. Ahead, Brad could see the trail opening into a wide asphalt street. Brooks kept running until they emptied out of the woods and stepped onto the road away from the flames. The wind blew steadily into their faces now, a firm draft being drawn into the fire. Brad pulled the balaclava away from his lips and sucked in deep breaths of the clean air. Grabbing at his combat shirt, he tugged at the collar to pull it down and allow his skin to breathe.
Looking down the street and into the main camp, he could see the now burnt out and skeletal frames of the buildings. The fire had already passed through and took everything with it, leaving only scorched earth. Bodies lay broken and charred in the yards in front of the structures. Brooks didn’t allow them to slow down; he turned them into the center of the street and began walking north. Brad fell in near the rear of the formation, keeping Axe to his right. Brooks, Roberts, and Boone formed a triangle at the front.
Brad was feeling the exhaustion creep in; his boots felt heavy on the hot pavement. When he pulled for another sip from the CamelBak, he came up empty. He shook it off and plodded forward. Axe coughed hard and stopped walking until he cleared his lungs. Brad held up to wait for the big man. He slapped him on the back until Axe nodded at him and wiped his face on his sleeve.
“You think they got it?” Axe said.
“What?”
“Those guys, the ones in black—do you think they got the cure?”
Brad pondered the idea. “I hope not, because she wasn’t with them, so that would mean… well, it wouldn’t be goo
d.”
Axe stopped walking and turned to face Brad. “The cure is a she?” he asked.
Brad shrugged. “Yeah, that’s what we’ve been told.”
A bright spotlight lit the front of the column then a man called out from somewhere ahead, concealed in the smoke and shadows. “Halt! Who’s out there,” a voice called.
Brooks stopped moving; he put his hands up and the others followed suit. “Friendlies coming in!” he shouted back. Brooks stayed motionless, waiting for a response.
“Okay, move up, but keep your arms and weapons out,” the voice replied.
Brooks held his rifle out and away from his body; he paced forward with Roberts and Boone falling in beside him. Brad did the same and proceeded forward. The spotlight stayed on them, cutting through the heavy gray smoke. As they stepped closer, a fence and gate appeared through the haze. A pair of HUMVEEs with soldiers standing over guns in the turrets slowly materialized. The spotlight drifted behind them and Brad could now see it was mounted atop a Stryker vehicle.
A soldier ran forward and pulled back a section of the gate, allowing them to file in. As they entered, another one looked at Roberts and reached out for him. “Damn, Roberts, where the hell have you been?” the soldier said, stepping forward then looking back to close the gate behind them.
Roberts dropped his hands. “Ah hell, it’s good to see you guys.”
After securing the gate, he turned and yelled up to the soldier in the Stryker, “It’s okay, guys; it’s Roberts.” The soldier turned back to them. “Sorry about the extra security. We got hit a few hours ago; someone attacked the outpost and things have really gone to shit.”