Bob helped organize the evacuation, attempting to ferry women and the elderly onto the chopper first. Vega was usually the one who communicated with civilians.
"Where's everyone else?" Vega stopped the civilian who was helping the guard. "Can you tell me what happened here?"
"They're all dead,'" the civilian replied simply, his lower lip trembling with quiet rage and sorrow. "Everyone's dead. Those people… they're not people."
"Sir, are you wounded in any way? May I have a look at the private?" she noticed the wounded soldier's rank.
Vega looked at the soldier's lapel.
"Private Willis," the soldier finally snapped to attention at the mention of his name. He blinked at Vega several times and waited for her to continue. "My name's Vega. We need to know what happened to the rest of your unit."
Private Willis stared back at her for a long time. Vega removed a glove from her hand and gently touched his cheek. He was frigid, and his glassy, red eyes were unfocused. He didn't blink for a long time, and his breathing was terribly shallow. She quickly turned around and motioned for Bob and Miles to hold on to the chopper and save room for Private Willis and the gentleman.
When she peeled back the strip of cloth wound tightly around the soldier's arm, she stopped herself from showing surprise. Instead of being shot, an entire layer of flesh had been ripped away, revealing muscle tissue surrounded by flesh that seemed more infected than it should have been.
"One of his own people did that," the civilian added. "It's everywhere. There's no escape. These people here… most of them don't know what they saw, but I know. I know what they were. I know what they wanted."
Vega swallowed. "Sir, can you be a little more clear, please?"
He shook his head. "There's nothing to say. There's nothing… we can do. My wife… there's nothing but death. There's only… death."
She stepped aside and allowed Miles and Bob to load him into the chopper. They couldn't cram all the civilians inside, and a brief melee ensued between the remaining survivors as the chopper lifted off into the sky.
Even with weapons pointed at them, they pushed and pulled at the mercenaries; no matter how many times Bob tried to tell them the chopper would be coming back one more time.
Vega joined the fracas and was forced to slam the butt of her gun into someone's jaw. Two people leapt off the edge of the roof without a further word, while Miles and Bob freed themselves from the fight.
For a moment, Vega could feel herself surrounded by the flames which poured out of nearby skyscrapers. She could feel the warmth of the dying city on her face, and she knew, deep down, that this city would never be the same.
"Off the roof!" Bob shouted at them.
They found the elevator and discovered, thankfully, that it was still operational. The glass elevator shaft provided a view to the surreal inferno which engulfed even the darkest corners of Detroit. Although there was barely a million people living in Detroit, the outbreak of violence might spread to the rest of the metropolitan area.
"We should wait for the chopper to come back!" she suggested. "We ride to the hospital and drop in. It's a waste of our time to roll through the whole damn city to find one man."
Bob shook his head and stopped his conversation over the headset. He said, "Chopper's coming for the last civilians and heading back home. Some political garbage got in the way. We're going to move in, grab Traverse, and bring him to Selfridge base."
"Did you see those people jump off the roof?" Miles asked. "I can't imagine a riot would do that. A well-trained battalion wouldn't just fall apart. I feel like we're a little late to the party. I got a bad feeling about this."
"What did you find out?" Bob asked Vega.
"Nobody could give me a clear answer. That was in total shock. He didn't have a bullet wound. It was… I don't know. A chunk of his arm was missing."
"We need to look at social media," Bob said. "Try to get an idea what the hell is going on around here."
While Bob removed his smartphone from his pocket, Vega couldn't help but look at him with her eyebrows raised. "This is a suicide mission," she said. "We better figure out what the hell we're going to die for because it's not for some brain-fried crazy in a nut house. What the fuck is going on?"
"Look!" Miles shouted.
A bright, fiery star burned through the smoke-filled atmosphere, twisting and turning as it came closer.
Vega swallowed. She could feel her entire body tense up; she could feel the fatigues sticking to her sweaty body and the weight of the useless sniper rifle in her hands, a weapon that couldn't save her now. She was aware of the headset on her head and the thick application of war paint beneath her eyes and around her nose.
Without knowing why, she wanted to see the expression on Miles's face, but her gaze was locked on the oncoming fireball, and she could see it clearly for what it was. It spiraled through the sky, heading on a collision course with the Renaissance Center.
"Hold on to something!" Bob didn’t have to say.
The helicopter burned through the air and crashed into the upper floors as their elevator continued its descent. The building quaked and the elevator's drop accelerated.
Vega felt unhinged; her control and comprehension of gravity failed. Wind and breath collided as glass shattered and rained over her helmet, which was violently ripped from her head. The steel supports groaned above and around them, a monstrous protest against the violation of the building's structure.
She tried to open her eyes—she was like a little girl swimming in the pool and opening her eyes for the first time underwater, everything blurring together, the uncertain vision was making it easier just to close everything up tight. She clutched her sniper rifle tightly to her chest, while her entire life seemed suspended in a state of free-fall.
The Act of Contrition quickly tumbled from her lips without a second thought. "My God, I am heartily sorry for having offended…"
A hairline fracture snaked along the glass as it shattered above them, raining shards down upon their heads. A gust of warm wind swirled around the soldiers.
Vega slid across the elevator as it tilted slightly. She grabbed the edge just as she was about to tumble into the street below. She wasn't afraid of heights, but looking down would be an acknowledgement of her own mortality.
The elevator lurched and her stomach curled while steel and glass cried out in pain. The quaking resumed, and she could feel herself once again filling into her body, as if her soul had abandoned her. Smoke stung her nostrils and burned her lungs, forcing her to cough violently as a cloud of ash and dust devoured their elevator, which seemed to grind against the side of the building, resisting a sudden disconnect.
When the elevator finally stopped its descent, she closed her eyes. She didn't see Miles or Bob fall, but there was so much smoke… she had to hang on. Her shoulders burned, and her fingers couldn't find the grip she needed.
She thought of the little girl whose face appeared on the television back at the hotel. The bright-eyed Shanna, smiling widely, a phone number defining her fate among the missing.
A strong hand suddenly grasped her fingers. She glimpsed Miles's stubble-laden face through the thick smoke. He pulled her over the edge, and she lay on her back to collect her ragged breath. Miraculously, the sniper rifle remained on the platform as the entire elevator dangled precariously, as it had been stopped somehow, someway.
Whenever it was a close call, Vega knew that God intervened on her behalf. She just never understood why.
"On your feet!" Bob shouted.
A hand grabbed hers and lifted her, coughing, through the rolling fog. Her arms were lifted over two sets of shoulders. She tried to open her eyes and make sense of what she saw, but the smoke burned her eyes. It was all she could do to breathe. She slipped her arms from around her teammates' shoulders and stood on her own feet, grateful the M25 was in her hands again. She still had her submachine gun strapped around her shoulder. Everything was right with the world.
She could see their sweat-drenched faces. There was still the mission, and they were soldiers, no matter what happened on the elevator.
"We're still alive," Miles noted. "Holy shit."
They were stranded in the darkness, and whatever hostile threat had decimated Willis's unit must have remained behind, waiting for them. They were in enemy territory, and they had no idea what they were up against. The abyssal dark was made thicker by all the unknown dangers that lurked within it. Not even the emergency lights were operational.
Vega closed her eyes and struggled to slow her beating heart. She should have died, yet, God allowed her to continue. He had to have a reason for keeping her upright.
She couldn't remember the first time she felt afraid. Her first combat encounter had been thrilling and exciting, and ever since, she remained an action junkie. She couldn't understand why she was painfully aware of her own mortality now, when her teammates needed her. Where did these feelings come from? Why was she so relieved to find that Miles had survived?
"We're on the fifth floor," Bob announced. "Check your weapons. I'm good to go. Are we wounded?"
"Affirmative on the weapons, boss," Miles said. "Not wounded."
Vega flashed him the thumbs-up. "Just my pride," she said and immediately coughed. "Never liked theme park rides."
"A miracle we have everything and everybody," Bob said.
"Act of God," Miles winked at Vega.
"That just happened," Vega said. "That chopper… this is civilian airspace. What the hell's going on?"
Tremors shook the building's core and dropped more dust and ash into their eyes.
"We have to move," Bob said. "The whole thing could collapse at any second."
They listened closely for any indication that there might be survivors trapped in the shadows and with the exception of breaking glass, there was nothing.
Bob tapped at his headset repeatedly and crouched down against the wall so he could adjust his signal.
"Lost the phone, too," Bob mumbled. "Can't get a signal on the headset. Let's move to the street. Anything that moves is potentially a target. Shoot to kill."
"You take responsibility…" Miles began.
"It's on me," Bob tapped his chest. "Let's move out."
They stood from their position and moved slowly down the stairwell. The remaining power flickered until it died completely, leaving them shrouded in darkness. Vega was thankful the fire alarm wasn't working in the building; the less noise interference, the better.
The eerie silence gave Vega the feeling she was walking into a humid, airless tomb. Her sense of smell was overwhelmed by the blood-smell of an abattoir, where hundreds of people had died gruesome deaths. While she had her own experience with urban, building-to-building combat, her adventures had always been in close quarters, where the smell was prevalent in a confined space upon which the sun beat down mercilessly at all hours of the day. She had the impression that the Renaissance Center, though she couldn't see much of it, was an expansive, open place that would have been air conditioned and ventilated. This could mean only one thing.
They were surrounded by death, and they couldn’t see it.
Miles and Bob must have been thinking the same thing. They moved slowly, taking measured steps while scanning every square inch with their flashlight-mounted weapons. Vega could feel herself breathing; she could hear the steel, wood, and glass struggle against one another on the upper floors where the helicopter crashed. It was only a matter of time before the rest of the building suffered. They had minutes remaining to them, at best.
"Contact," Bob whispered."Almost fucking bumped right into her."
They trained their weapons on a woman who was hunched over an unconscious man. The woman slowly rose to her feet.
"Ma'am, are you hurt?" Miles asked.
The woman didn’t seem to hear him. Without answering his inquiry, she slowly stepped toward him.
"Stay where you are," Miles said. "We're here to help, but please stay where you are."
She might have been a middle-aged housewife or an independent entrepreneur. Strands of stringy, wet hair clung to her face while her jaw worked around a morsel of food that was between her teeth. Blood oozed juicily over her lips and down the length of her chin, dripping onto her white blouse. Her left shoulder hung awkwardly, and Bob's flashlight revealed stark-white bone up to her elbow.
The woman should have been dead.
"Jesus," Miles took a step back. "You're hurt pretty bad, and you're in shock. Let us help you. Don't take another step. Stay where you are."
"Don't have time for this," Vega licked her salty upper lip. She was anxious and wanted to move out. Something was wrong with the woman. They had to get the hell out of that building.
With slow feet that scraped against the floor, the woman reached for Miles to give him a thankful hug.
"It's okay," Miles swallowed and lowered his weapon.
"What the fuck are you doing?" Bob shouted at him. "Get your shit together! Lady, back off!"
It was too late. Miles reached his own arms around her in the welcoming embrace you often saw on television commercials, or recruitment pamphlets of the soldier rescuing a refugee from some war-torn country.
Vega wasn't sure if she was shouting, or if it was Bob. When the woman leaned in to kiss Miles, the wide mouth full of teeth that stretched over his face dropped a bloody chunk of meat; it slipped into her blouse. Miles screamed as her teeth ripped away a layer of flesh from his cheek. His knee bent backward as the woman pressed her entire body's weight upon him. The side of his face became a faucet which spewed blood at full pressure, while the woman's mouth was full of his face.
Bob pushed her off Miles. "Get back!" he shoved Miles to his knees, and Vega immediately grabbed his hand and pulled him across the floor. Bob fired a shotgun shell right into the woman's midsection; the blast, in close proximity, caused her to leave her feet.
Vega already had a strip of gauze attached to Miles's face to staunch the bleeding.
"It burns!" he shouted. "Bitch bit me! FUCK!"
"Crybaby," Vega cradled his head on her lap.
Bob pumped the shotgun and ejected the empty shell, letting it clatter to the floor and roll near Miles's feet. The woman with a mouthful of Miles sat up, chewing, and looked at Bob without the slightest hint of hatred or surprise. She struggled to stand up again without a single grunt or complaint of pain.
"No way," Vega swallowed the lump in her throat.
The Marriott trembled again, and Bob shot the woman a second time. Her torso jerked backward at an impossible angle, but she recovered and remained upright, still chewing. With twitching hands and twisted fingers, her head tilted weakly to her bloody shoulder, while she lurched forward and nearly collapsed onto her face; the contents of the black hole that was now her stomach spilled in front of her, sliding in a tangled mess of liquids and ropy intestine.
When Bob pumped the Benelli and blew her head off in a spray of bone and brain, the rest of the body slumped forward and lay there in its own gore.
"How did that taste?" Bob shouted at the corpse. "You want dessert? Get back up!"
In response to Bob's challenge, the man who already lay on the floor sat up slightly and reached for Bob's boot. The old veteran withdrew his foot, pumped his shotgun, and splattered the guy's skull across the floor. Blood and gray brain chunks stuck to Bob's pants.
Vega wasn't about to challenge Bob's decision. As far as she was concerned, they were in hostile territory.
Shoot to kill.
There was no time to ask questions or
determine cause. There was no time to think or fear. She knew how to survive, and so did her teammates. They were against the entire world, now. It was this mentality, the idea that no hope or help could arrive, which allowed them to successfully complete mission after mission.
"Stop squirming," she lifted Miles to his feet. "It's a damn improvement. Now your face looks like an Arby's menu."
Miles emitted a low, savage growl. "Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh… those people were dead. They were both dead." He removed his hand from his bloody face and rummaged around in his pockets.
Vega could clearly see the cloud of white powder he slapped onto to his maimed face. He voraciously rubbed his finger across his lips and gums.
"Hold still," Vega said through gnashed teeth. "We need to get a field dressing on your wound."
She worked quickly while Bob continued to track the darkness with his gun. The entire structure seemed to be moving around them, as if they were inside a building that lived and breathed. Vega was uneasy, and couldn't help but constantly glance around, looking over her shoulders repeatedly.
"I can see the first floor from here," Bob said. "I can't tell… what I'm looking at."
A bandage was haphazardly applied to Miles's bleeding face. His blood covered her shaking hands. She'd never reacted like this before, and she knew it was because she wasn't in control.
"Headshots," Miles said. "Just like in the movies."
Bob turned back to him. "Yeah. Headshots work. Makes me wonder how many more…"
"I wanted to get a face-lift anyways," Miles said. "Fuck! It burns!"
Bob knelt beside him, assuming the tone of authority and command. "We're right in the middle of hostile territory. Can you get to your feet, soldier?"
"I hope we don't need a dictionary to know what the hell that was," Miles said, his tongue tracing the length of his upper lip, back and forth, back and forth. "We can't deny what that was. You want me to say it, boss? You want me to tell you what kind of shit you dropped us into?"
Zombie Ascension (Book 1): Necropolis Now Page 5