V Plague (Book 16): Brimstone

by Dirk Patton

  “Let’s call the sub while we’ve got a clear shot at the sky,” Strickland said.

  Irina translated quickly and Igor pulled to a stop. Less than a minute later, the SEAL had contacted Pearl Harbor on the satellite link and been rerouted to the sub. He spoke directly with the Tactical Action Officer aboard a Los Angeles class attack boat, the Key West. The conversation was short, the Key West quickly determining a precise location for the pick-up with the satellite link.

  “Got about two hours,” he said, packing the equipment away.

  “Why so long?” Irina asked. “I thought they were waiting for us?”

  “They were, but the Sea of Japan is a big place and they weren’t sure where we were going to pop up. Sounds like Hawaii was keeping an eye with sat surveillance, but wasn’t sure where we were because of the clouds. Anyway, the skipper took a chance and moved into the area, but they’re going to get closer and launch a RHIB to come get us.”

  “Rib?” Irina asked, not understanding the term.

  “Rigid Hull Inflatable Boat. There’s some of my brothers on board. They’ll take a little cruise and meet us on the beach.”

  “And you’re sure they’ll take my uncle’s body on board?” she asked.

  “The TAO checked with the boat’s skipper while I was talking to him. The Admiral will be buried at sea,” Strickland said, reaching out and squeezing her hand. “Seems fitting for a navy man.”

  Irina nodded and settled into her seat to wait. With nothing else to do, they fell silent. Igor left the engine running to provide heat and for a little more than an hour, if not exactly comfortable, they weren’t wet or cold.

  51

  “Fuck me,” Strickland mumbled, snapping Igor’s and Irina’s heads around.

  “What?” Igor barked.

  “Goddamn infected followed us. Whole bunch coming over that rise, ‘bout a mile back.”

  Igor peered through the rear window, then opened his door and got out for a better look. With a curse, he turned a circle, then ran to the edge of the bluff and looked down at the beach. Hurrying back to the Hunter, he waved them out and opened the rear hatch where Admiral Shevchenko’s body was wrapped in a blanket.

  “What’re we doin’?” Strickland asked, raising his rifle to look at the approaching infected through the scope.

  “Go beach,” Igor said as he slung the corpse over his shoulder.

  “Are you crazy? We’ll be trapped between the ocean and the infected. Can’t go in that fuckin’ water. It’s too cold. We’d be dead in minutes.”

  “Trust,” Igor said.

  Without another word, he turned and moved to the top of the bluff. Irina followed him without hesitation, but Strickland wasn’t so sure. Taking another look at the approaching females, he slowly walked to the bluff as first Igor, then Irina disappeared over the edge.

  A path to the beach, no wider than a couple of feet, was worn into the face of the bluff. Strickland doubted it was animals, rather human feet that had created it. Glancing over his shoulder, he sighed and followed. More than once, the ground crumbled under Igor’s big boots and he held his breath in anticipation of the Spetsnaz taking a fast trip to the rocks below. But somehow, they all made it down without any mishap.

  “You’d best know what you’re doing, or we’re fucked,” Strickland said, helping Igor gently lower the body to the ground.

  “You shoot,” Igor said when he straightened.

  He pointed at the top of the bluff where the path started down. It was steep and narrow, restricting access to a single person at a time. Understanding dawned and Strickland grinned broadly, raising his rifle and waiting for the females to arrive.

  It wasn’t long before the first head appeared at a spot well away from the path. Quickly, the entire top of the bluff was lined with females, their screams faint with distance and the roar of the surf. The SEAL held his fire, not seeing the point in using ammo until they found the route to the beach. Faster than he expected, an infected dropped over the edge, onto the trail. Still, he waited. Gave her time to descend part of the way.

  The angle to the top of the bluff was very steep because of the narrow beach. That meant if he tried engaging the infected as soon as they stepped onto the path, he would be firing nearly straight up. A whole new level of difficulty would be introduced by gravity, the howling wind and sighting in on a target at an oblique angle. Not impossible, but exponentially more challenging than firing in a line closer to horizontal.

  Strickland was confident in his ability to make those shots, but decided there was no reason to do so. The challenges introduced by the angle could easily result in it requiring multiple rounds to do the job he should have been able to accomplish with only one. Again, wasting ammo that was hardly available in infinite quantities.

  So, he selected a spot on the path that was about halfway down. Still a significant angle, but nothing compared to the very top of the bluff. Dramatically easier with a much higher probability of achieving a kill shot with his first round. Watching the infected bunch up at the top and begin filing onto the path, he waited patiently for the first one to reach his selected location.

  Tracking the lead female, he was reminded how fast and agile they were. Moving much faster than he and his companions had, it wasn’t long before the entire upper half of the trail was a nearly solid line of bodies. Their movement reminded him of an ant trail.

  Releasing a breath, he fired when the lead infected reached his preselected point. Her inert body toppled over the edge of the path. Tumbling through the air for several seconds, it slammed onto the rocks with a sickening crunch. He took an instant to glance at her, satisfied to see that even if his shot hadn’t done the job, the fall most certainly would have. Her head and body both ruptured on impact, splashing hot blood and organs onto the frozen stones. Steam was already rising from the spilled entrails.

  The shattered corpse gave him an idea and as he targeted the next female in line, he adjusted his aim slightly down. Head shots were possible, but why spend the extra time per round to make one. All he had to do was cause them to fall to the jagged rocks below. Firing again, he quickly worked his way up the line, targeting hips and upper legs. With every shot, a female plunged to her death. Soon, he was having to pause to allow those following an opportunity to reach his self-selected red line.

  “I shoot,” Igor said from behind him after several minutes. “You watch for boat.”

  He didn’t wait for Strickland to answer before he began copying the young American’s method.

  The SEAL got to his feet, turning and looking out at the ocean. From beach level, he could see nothing other than heaving gray water and white caps. Until the RHIB was within fifty yards of shore, it would be impossible to spot. He glanced down at Shevchenko’s corpse, Irina seated next to it and huddled into herself against the wind.

  “I’m sorry about your uncle,” he said, raising his voice to be heard. “He seemed like a good guy, for an Admiral.”

  “He liked you,” Irina said with a sad smile.

  “He told you that?” Strickland asked, surprised.

  “He didn’t have to. He talked to you. He didn’t waste time on people he didn’t like.”

  Feeling more loss for the old man, Strickland nodded and slowly moved to the edge of the water. He stood just short of the farthest point the surf was reaching, but frequently the wind would rip the top off a wave and he’d be pelted with spray. Bringing the rifle up, he activated his thermal scope and scanned the horizon in hopes of spotting the hot motor of the RHIB. After nearly a minute, he gave up.

  Dropping his pack, he dug through until finding an Infrared strobe. It wouldn’t be visible to the naked eye, but he knew the SEALs in the RHIB would be scanning for it and it would stand out against the colorless world in their imaging gear.

  Behind him, Igor maintained a steady rate of fire. He looked over his shoulder, amazed at the swiftly growing pile of infected who had been shot off the path. He frowned when he realized seve
ral of them were moving, crawling across the beach towards them.

  Running to Irina, he shoved the strobe into her hand, telling her to keep it aimed at the water and above shoulder level. Not waiting for her to answer, he dashed past Igor and began firing single shots into the heads of the females that were dragging their broken bodies across the sand and rocks.

  So many had fallen that their corpses had created a cushion for the others, protecting them from the jagged rocks. They were still severely injured, but as Strickland knew, you don’t count out an infected until you see the inside of their skull.

  “They’re here!”

  He glanced over his shoulder at a faint shout from Irina. Out to sea, at the limit of his vision, a brilliant light was flashing. It was obscured more often than not by the waves, but there was no mistaking the code the SEALs on board the RHIB were sending.

  Focusing on his task, he shot another female that, to his utter amazement, had managed to rise to her feet and begin limping in their direction. He wanted to check on the progress of the rescue boat, but yet another female struggled to an upright position and came at him with a blood curdling scream.

  He put her down, then paused and watched in satisfaction as a sound like an angry hive of bees ripped through the air from behind him. The face of the bluff, all along the path, erupted as fire from a minigun mounted aboard the RHIB shredded the infected making their way down.

  It was only a few second burst, but when the wind whipped away the dust, no females remained on the path. Bodies and body parts rained down onto the pile of corpses he and Igor had created, but none of these got up. He dispatched the final two crawling infected, then turned and ran for the water’s edge as a RHIB grounded it’s bow onto the beach.

  Igor was already ahead of him, hoisting Shevchenko’s body and rushing forward. Four SEALs ran to meet him, taking the burden and dashing back to their boat. Another helped Irina aboard, then moved aside as Igor splashed through the surf and leapt over the side. The minigun, mounted on a pintle near the bow of the boat, sounded for another few seconds, but Strickland didn’t bother to look behind him.

  Before he reached the water’s edge, the boat was pushed off the beach in preparation for departure. High stepping through the freezing surf, Strickland grasped a strong rope and hauled himself onto the gunwale. Instantly, strong hands grabbed his arms and he was unceremoniously pulled aboard to land on Igor’s big boots.

  The sailor at the helm handled the boat and the rough surf like he’d been doing it all his life, carefully turning the craft to face the open sea. When it was properly aligned, he goosed the throttle and it leapt ahead, momentarily going airborne when it crested a white cap.

  They charged away from the beach, receiving a constant drenching from the waves crashing over the bow. Strickland sat up and looked around, giving the men who’d picked him up a smile. Igor held on to Irina who was already looking a little green around the gills from the violent pitching of the sea. After a moment, Strickland scooted to sit next to Admiral Shevchenko’s blanket wrapped corpse.

  “Who’s that?” the SEAL Lieutenant in charge of the team shouted.

  “Admiral of the Fleet Shevchenko,” Strickland answered, earning a look of surprise from several of the men.

  “We’re bringing a fuckin’ dead Russian?” one of them blurted, earning a look from Igor.

  “We’re bringing a man who died because he tried to stop all this before it ever started, and now he was trying to help,” Strickland said, eyes boring into the man who’d spoken. “And if you call him a fuckin’ Russian again, we’re gonna have a problem. Understand me?”

  The SEAL held Strickland’s eyes for a few beats before looking at the body. Finally, he nodded an apology before leaning back and closing his eyes for the rest of the trip to the submarine.

  52

  I drove fast, leaning forward and peering intently through the windshield. Twice, I hit the brakes when I saw movement, my heart leaping in expectation of finding Mavis. But in both instances, it was only a wallaby. Pounding the wheel in frustration, I kept the speed on, racing east.

  Where the hell was she? I’d already driven several miles from where she’d abandoned the sedan and had yet to find her. Had she left the road? Maybe, but why? Why strike out cross country when there’s a perfectly smooth ribbon of asphalt to walk on? But if she hadn’t voluntarily headed out into the brush, well… I didn’t want to think about the alternative.

  An object briefly appeared in the oncoming lane, caught by the spill of the headlights, then the truck flashed past. It had only been visible for an instant, but something had caught my attention. Slamming on the brakes, I sent the truck into a semi-controlled skid, laying down a pair of long, black tire marks. Slapping the transmission into reverse, I roared backwards and came to another screeching stop.

  Leaving the engine running, I jumped out and ran to where the object lay. It was a small shoe. Was it Mavis’s? Try as I might, I couldn’t remember what she was wearing on her feet. Bending, I picked it up and turned it over slowly in my hand.

  There was no doubt it was a child’s shoe, being not even half the length of what I wore. But that was all I could tell. It had been white, once, but was now a dingy gray. Generic in design, it was something that could and would be worn by either a girl or boy.

  Shoe in hand, I raised my eye to the horizon and started to turn a circle. The dull glint of metal in a roadside ditch caught my attention and I dashed forward. Approaching, I saw tire marks from hard braking, but not the ones I’d just left. These were much smaller. Narrower.

  Then a few small pieces of debris that twinkled in the truck’s lights. Reaching the side of the road, I looked into the ditch, frowning when I saw two motorcycles. I was going to climb down and check to see if the engines were still warm, but froze at a rustling sound in the grass.

  “Mavis!” I shouted.

  There was an immediate scream in response to my voice and I cursed. The rustling grew in intensity and I yanked my knife clear of its sheath as I leapt the ditch. The female was only a few feet away, her pelvis obviously broken, but she was using her arms to drag herself toward me. Stepping close, I kicked her in the face as she opened her mouth to scream, then bent and rammed the long Russian blade into the back of her neck.

  Straightening, I kept the knife in my hand and looked over the scene. Both motorcycles had gone down while in motion. Now that I knew what to look for, I spotted a couple of gouges in the asphalt left by their foot pegs. The front wheel and forks on one were bent, as if the rider had hit something. Hard. The second showed only damage from skidding on the pavement.

  This told me enough to understand that the bikers had run into a group of females in the darkness. Quite literally. But how? Had they been running without lights and didn’t see them? No, the most likely scenario was the females had charged out of the night, directly into their path. I’d seen that behavior plenty of times.

  Widening my search, I found three more dead females lying in the brush. But none of these showed signs of damage from being struck by a motorcycle. Two had been shot, multiple times, and the third’s head had been caved in by something heavy, perhaps a tire iron. Moving further away from the road, I paused, looking at a swath of bruised grass where at least two pairs of feet had recently passed.

  Kneeling near a darker spot, I reached down and felt sticky wetness. Holding up my hand, there was a dark stain and a quick sniff confirmed it was blood. I just couldn’t see the red in the dark. Standing, I was able to identify a faint trail heading directly away from the road.

  Turning back to the crashed bikes, I wondered if this was some of the same guys I’d encountered in Sydney. The one I’d talked to was definitely an Aborigine and was someone who Mavis might feel comfortable with. And they’d been heading away from the city. Had she been walking and encountered them? Asked for help? Or had she already been taken by the infected who ambushed the two bikers? Savagely shaking my head, I dismissed that thought. Refu
sed to give the possibility any credence. Looking at the horizon, I leapt forward, knife in hand.

  It seemed as if I flowed over the ground as I raced along the track. My legs felt light, propelling me easily up and over the low hills. I hurdled obstacles without a second thought, pushing for more speed as I continued to spot a frequent blood trail. Someone was injured. My breath came easy and as I ran, the cage door penning my berserker inside swung fully open.

  The road was far behind when I came to an abrupt stop. A wide swath of grass was trampled flat, the tracks of dozens of feet merging with the trail I’d been following. A hunting pack of females had picked up the spoor of the fleeing bikers and, hopefully, Mavis. With a curse, I charged ahead, running through the night along the now easily followed path.

  Dingoes howled in the near distance, but I ignored them. Well, not really. Part of me wanted them to attack. To give me an opportunity to satisfy the bloodlust that was burning in my gut. The nearly irresistible desire to lose myself in a frenzy of violence. I gripped the knife tighter in anticipation of a fight, but they didn’t approach.

  Ten minutes later, I crested a rise and started down into a shallow valley. A hundred yards ahead, a large group of females were tightly clustered at the base of a massive tree with broad, spreading branches. Several bodies lay unmoving in the grass and as I approached, one of the infected took a mighty leap and grabbed onto the trunk, high off the ground.

  She was scrambling up, then I faintly heard the sickening sound of steel striking flesh and she went limp and crashed to the ground below. The others screamed as they rushed in, looking up into the tree’s canopy, but none immediately tried to scale the tree. They were showing signs of self-preservation?

  I didn’t stop to think about that. It didn’t change the situation. This was probably the same person that had caved in the female’s head back by the road, and whatever he was using could apparently accomplish that with one blow. But the pack had him treed. He might be able to stop them from climbing up and attacking, but he wasn’t going to come down. The females would stay there, not leaving until their prey made a desperate attempt to escape, or succumbed to dehydration, passed out and fell to the ground.