by Tripp Ellis
“This doesn’t look like a hangar bay to me,” Delroy said.
Steele glared at him. “Wait here.”
He pushed in through the door and moved toward the back wall. The room contained a camera, a backdrop, several American flags, and a podium with the Presidential Seal—everything the president needed to address the American people.
Steele rifled through his pack and pulled out several sticks of C-9 explosive. It was a moldable putty that could be shaped as needed. It was like C-4, but more pliable, and more powerful. Steele rolled the putty into a thin rope-like band and stuck it to the concrete wall in an oval shape. He pushed several remote blasting caps into the soft putty and left the room.
Steele strode into the hallway, closing the door behind him. “Clear the doorway,” he shouted. Then he crouched down, covered his ears and yelled, “Fire in the hole.”
Everyone else followed his lead.
Steele’s thumb depressed the remote detonator switch.
KABOOM!
The explosion thundered and shook the entire facility. The door to the media room blasted into the hallway, smashing into the opposite wall. Dust filled the air. Bits of concrete lined the floor of the media room. The tripod had been knocked over, and the expensive broadcast camera was nothing more than shattered fragments of plastic and glass. But there was a hole in the wall where the C9 had been. It was large enough to crawl through. It led to the sector B-30 hallway. The sector B-30 hallway led directly to room B-31—the hangar bay.
The blast had the added bonus of taking out some lurkers on the other side. Steele poked his head through the hole in the wall. He saw bits of body parts laying amid the rubble. A quick glance in either direction down the corridor revealed dazed lurkers stumbling toward him.
He crawled through the narrow hole in the wall and came out the other side swinging. The blade of his tactical sword gouged the abdomen of an attacking lurker. Small intestines spilled out like links of tiny sausages. They splattered on the floor with a disgusting slap. A horrific stench wafted up from the entrails. Steele’s nose crinkled up at the smell.
Steele stabbed the ghoul through the eye socket. Then he kicked the thing back and its skull slid from the blade. He spun around and lopped off the head of another lurker. Then another. And another.
“Clear,” he yelled.
The others climbed through, and they all raced into the hangar bay as more lurkers lumbered after them.
The hangar bay was clear, except for two maintenance techs that had joined the shuffle club. Steele dispatched them with ease, and the team sealed the hangar door behind them.
“How much time do we have?” Steele asked.
“Maybe twenty minutes,” Johnson said. “Where are we going to go?”
“I know a place that’s safe from infection.”
“That sounds good to me,” Delroy chimed.
“There’s no place on Earth that’s safe from infection, I’m afraid.” The president sighed. “I’m all out of options, Major Steele,” the president conceded. “I’m going to trust your judgment.”
Steele nodded.
The president trotted to a terminal on the wall. He entered a code, and the topside hangar bay doors began to slide open. Hydraulics whirred, and the massive reinforced concrete doors parted. Sunlight beamed down into the cavernous cylinder.
Lurkers began to rain down into the hangar bay, tumbling in from above. Their bodies splattered on the concrete. They became unrecognizable piles of mush. You’d be killed instantly if one landed on top of you.
The team dashed to the vehicle that would become Marine One. Avoiding the hailstorm of bodies was like playing dodgeball. The team climbed up the ramp into the Skyhawk and buckled themselves into their seats. Steele climbed into the cockpit and powered up the system.
Bodies clattered against the hull.
Steele raised the back ramp once everyone was on board. The CAV had a full fuel cell and all systems checked out OK. The engines wound up, and moments later, the StarHawk’s skids lifted from the concrete. The thrusters boosted Marine One vertically through the cylinder, cresting the hangar bay doors.
Hordes of lurkers covered the ground below. They poured into the hangar bay like a waterfall. Marine One rose high into the air. Steele took a last look at the skyline of the city. He figured it might be the last skyline he ever saw. There was an ominous sense of finality in the air. The end of America was likely at hand.
37
Steele gave the engines full thrust. The Skyhawk lurched forward, and the thrusters rumbled. He nosed the CAV toward the sky, and they rocketed toward the upper atmosphere.
The display indicated that the engines were at 95% of maximum. Steele was pinned back against his seat. At 3 Gs of force, it felt like his skin was plastered to his bones. It was hard to reach the instrument cluster and controls.
As sturdy as it was, the CAV still vibrated and rattled. It was tearing through the air at 4000 miles an hour. And that was just the beginning.
The president sat next to him in the copilot’s chair. He looked like he was going to puke.
A few moments later, the CAV had ramped up to 20,000 miles an hour. It had broken free of the earth’s atmosphere and was in a low Earth orbit.
The ride was calm and smooth now, gliding toward the ISR. The president started to get some of his color back.
“Everybody stay in your seats,” Steele barked. “The last thing I need is somebody getting hurt floating around in zero G, banging their skull against the bulkhead.”
Delroy re-buckled his harness. He was about to take off and glide across the cargo hold. It wasn’t everyday that you got to go into a low Earth orbit and feel the effects of weightlessness.
The Earth below looked peaceful. Steele rolled the vehicle so the Earth was on his left side. He looked out the window at the majestic blue orb below. It looked so beautiful. But it was about to become a raging shit hole.
The International Space Ring floated above the Earth like a metallic cloud.
“They’re never going to let us on board,” the president said. “This is a military vehicle. International treaty prohibits any military personnel or equipment aboard the ISR.”
“They’re not going to have a choice,” Steele said.
Steele piloted the vehicle to the hangar bay on the west end of the ISR. A voice crackled out over the intercom. “ISR traffic control, please identify and state your purpose.”
“Marine One,” Steele responded. “Request permission to land.”
“Negative, Marine One.”
Steele clenched his jaw. “Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear. I have the president of the United States on board.”
“Understood, Marine One. Access is still denied.”
“This is an emergency situation.” Steele’s face was turning red, and his veins were beginning to bulge.
There was no doubt that the ISR had detected a missile launch. ICBMs were streaking through the air. It would be painfully obvious to anyone in the ISR’s geo-monitoring station. “We are aware of the situation. But according to the ISR Sovereign Space Treaty of 2035, no military personnel or equipment are allowed on the ISR. I am therefore unable to grant you permission to land.” Then he added, “I don’t make the rules.”
Steele was done playing by the rules. “Look, you little twerp, I’ve got 24, X-27 rockets that I’m going to ram up your ass if you don’t open those hangar bay doors.”
“Are you threatening the Sovereign ISR Nation?”
“Yes. Call it an invasion. We can do this the easy way, or we can do this the hard way.”
“Uh,” the voice stammered. “Hang on.”
Steele and the president exchanged a glance.
“Have you ever thought about running for office?” the president joked.
The scientists aboard the ISR hadn’t given much consideration to the fact that their treaty left them completely undefended. There were no weapons of any kind. No defense systems. Nothing to det
er an aggressor.
A few well-placed rockets would have brought the fragile station down, turning it into a flaming ball of metal in the upper atmosphere.
The traffic control agent’s voice crackled over the speaker a few minutes later. “Permission to land in hangar bay one.”
The large hanger bay doors parted. Steele eased the craft inside. The skids clanked down against the metal landing surface. The ISR created its own gravity system.
Steele waited for the bay doors to slide shut behind him. The hangar pressurized and filled with atmosphere. The CAV’s display gave a readout of the oxygen level. After a moment, the display flashed green, indicating it was safe and breathable.
Steele climbed out of the cockpit. He grabbed an RK 709 from the weapons locker and resupplied himself with thermal grenades. Then he headed toward the back ramp. “I don’t think we’re going to receive a warm welcome. So when I lower this ramp, were coming out weapons hot. Parker, I want you in the cockpit, ready to fire a rocket into the bulkhead. If they give us any shit, we’re bringing the whole station down.”
“Peace through strength,” yes sir. She climbed into the cockpit and readied the weapons systems.
“Chloe, you stay here with Parker.”
She nodded, and climbed up front in the copilot’s seat.
“Mr. President, stay here until we secure the area.”
“It’s not like they’re going to fight back,” he said.
“Better safe than sorry.”
“Major, there’s about to be nothing left. I’m afraid, I’m no more important that anyone else.”
Steele stood tall. “It’s the idea behind the office, and what it stands for, sir. As long as we have a Constitution, we have a country. And a country needs a president.”
Johnson puffed up and saluted Steele. “Thank you for reminding me, Major.”
Steele snapped a return salute, then engaged the ramp release. The cargo door folded down. He and Delroy plunged down the ramp, followed by Earl. Steele circled around one side of the vehicle and Delroy and Earl took the other. They met at the front of the CAV and kept their weapons aimed at the airlock door.
After a few moments, it dawned on Steele that no one was coming through that airlock. Why would they?
A voice crackled over a loudspeaker. “I’m ISR president, Norman Clark. Welcome to the Ring, gentlemen. I can assure you, your weapons are not needed here. We are more than happy to accommodate your refugee status, given the current circumstances. However, we do require a 30 day quarantine period. If, after that time, you remain clear of infection, you will be allowed into the general population. You may either stay as a guest, or apply for permanent citizenship. Please make yourselves as comfortable as possible until we can prepare decontamination facilities. Thank you.” The speaker crackled off.
Steele and the others lowered their weapons.
“Decontamination, huh?” Delroy said. “They’re going to keep us in this damn hangar bay for 30 days?”
“Beats the alternative,” Steele said.
Earl’s eyes went wide. “Shit. Look.”
The massive hangar bay had a row of windows on either side. They provided a stunning view of Earth.
Earl rushed to the windows. He finally got to see that stellar view of Earth from the ISR. Steele and Delroy followed. A brilliant flash of light erupted from the surface below. Then another. And another. Then it was like a string of fireworks—hundreds of blinding flashes. It was like popcorn popping. North America was glowing with nuclear explosions. Pinpoints of light as hot as the sun.
Steele looked down at the destruction below, heartbroken. The country that he had fought so hard to defend, for so many years, was being incinerated before his eyes. He felt his knees go weak as the grim reality set in. It was gut wrenching to watch.
Delroy stepped aside and puked into his helmet.
Steele’s eyes misted over and he bit down hard. He could see missiles streaking through the upper atmosphere, rocketing toward the other side of the globe. SIDCOM had decided on a response to the incoming warheads. She had launched a full-scale retaliation. Russia would suffer the same fate.
Steele didn’t know if nuclear annihilation would stop the spread of infection. It probably wouldn’t, especially now that the infection was airborne.
Steele was thankful for at least one thing—Chloe was safe. And that gave him hope. Hope that she might have some kind of a normal life. Hope that things could be rebuilt. Hope that her generation might live to build a better world. Better than the one that his generation screwed up.
The End
Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed this story as much as I enjoyed writing it. Please consider rating and reviewing on Amazon—a simple “Loved it,” or, “Hated it,” would be appreciated.
—Tripp
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I'm just a geek who loves sci-fi and horror. I was abducted by aliens and forced to travel the galaxy as the official biographer of an evil galactic ruler. This is where I learned to hone my craft. Fortunately, I escaped and made my way back to Earth, and now I write about my adventures. I hope you enjoy!
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