Stone Soldiers 6: Armageddon Z

by C. E. Martin

  "No," Kenji said. He could feel a panic gripping him now. He felt hot, feverish.

  "You need to go back, Nakayama. Try this again. We screwed up."

  Despite his broken arm and ribs, and the pain wracking his whole body, Kenji felt a new pain now. It was a headache, building in intensity and like nothing he'd ever felt before in all the many deaths he had experienced.

  Then something cold and metal pressed against his forehead.

  "Sorry, kid," Mark Kenslir said, then squeezed the trigger.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  ONE DAY BEFORE INFECTION (3rd Attempt)

  Kenji awoke with a start, his whole body spasming.

  His heart was pounding, and he felt lightheaded. He held a hand up to his face, feeling for injuries. There were none. He was whole.

  "Hey! I'm talking to you!" the security guard said.

  Kenji sighed in relief. He was back in the unmarked FBI SUV, and the security guard was tapping on his window again.

  "Yes, sir," Kenji said, smiling. He rolled down his window. "Can I help you?"

  "Help me?" the guard went from baffled to angry, quickly. "You on something, kid?"

  "No, no. Just waiting for a friend."

  "I'm going to need to see some ID."

  "Sure," Kenji said. He realized that like before, he'd once again dropped the control module for his augmented reality glasses when he'd woken up. But they wouldn't really help him now anyway.

  "It's in the back," Kenji said.

  He turned and leaned over the seat. He unzipped the duffel bag there and quickly located what he needed.

  "Got it right here," Kenji said, squeezing the trigger.

  The small pistol barked once, much to the security guard's surprise. The bullet smashed into his face and he staggered backwards and collapsed to the ground.

  Kenji quickly got out of the SUV and walked over to the man. He was choking on his own blood, his hands grabbing at his face. He'd somehow survived the shot.

  "I'm really sorry," Kenji said, kneeling. He placed the gun to the man's head and fired again. He tried to tell himself that it was fate—that the guard was supposed to die.

  The body jumped, then went still.

  Kenji tucked the pistol into his waistband, then grabbed at the man's belt, pulling a pair of handcuffs from a leather pouch. He quickly handcuffed one wrist of the corpse, then dragged it to the rear of the SUV. He secured the corpse to the rear bumper with the other side of the handcuffs. Then he waited.

  After several minutes, right on cue, the white panel van erupted through the roll up door of the warehouse, fishtailing wildly. Once again, Colonel Kenslir ended up beneath the van and nearly succeeded in flipping it end over end.

  Kenji jogged over to the Colonel as he rose from the ground, ready to give chase on foot as the van sped away.

  "Wait," Kenji said, grabbing his arm. "Let her go."

  "What?" Kenslir said, shaking off Kenji's hand.

  "Trust me. You don't want to do that again."

  Kenslir considered the young psychic carefully.

  "Command!" He at last said. "Keep eyes on that van."

  He holstered his magnum, then walked over to the OA-93 he'd dropped. "You better be right, psychic."

  "Trust me—you don't want to fight the elemental here."

  "Elemental? Fire? Water?"

  Kenji paused for a second, considering. "You didn't really say."

  "So now what?" Kenslir was clearly fuming at not giving chase.

  "Well," Kenji said. "All those zombies you just killed in the warehouse?"

  "Yeah?"

  "They're doing that," Kenji said, pointing.

  Kenslir turned, following the direction Kenji indicated. He was surprised to see what looked like a security guard, handcuffed to the rear of the SUV, trying to break free of his restraints.

  "Wha-?" the Colonel started to ask.

  Kenji interrupted by pulling his handgun from the waist of his pants and firing. He missed with his first two shots, but the third found its mark.

  The security guard jerked as the bullet hit him, then turned his eyeless face their way.

  Kenslir cybernetically zoomed in on the guard's shriveled face with the tactical visor, revealing the bullet holes in the man's cheek and forehead, the green and yellow blotches of mold on his skin.

  "You heard the man," Kenslir said. "Get your asses down here and give me a hand."

  The Colonel checked his weapons, reloading his OA-93 then holstering it. "So, how do we kill them now?"

  "Electricity and knives seemed to work pretty good last time."

  ***

  When his transport coffin—that's what Phillips liked to think of them as— finally opened, he breathed a sigh of relief. He hated being cooped up in the tubes. He didn't get muscle cramps or get sleepy—his stone body didn't suffer from those kind of problems. And he knew that at any time he could tear his way free with his fists.

  No, what bothered Colonel Chadwick Phillips about the transport tubes was laying in them for so long, motionless, like a corpse. He wanted to be doing something.

  The other men seemed fine with watching movies or television programs in their tactical visors as they lay waiting, attached to the underbellies of the MA-12 Ravens that deployed them around the world. But not Phillips. He'd spent far too many years in a nursing home, confined to a wheelchair. He'd had enough sitting and waiting to last three lifetimes.

  He wanted to get out and see the world. Of course, sightseeing was strictly forbidden for the men of stone—it wouldn't do for the civilian populace to see them. That left only combat—a rare chance to escape Argon Tower and do something.

  When his boots finally hit the ground in St. Louis, Chadwick was ready. He unlimbered his M60E2 and checked the area, noting his fellow teammates were all already down and preparing for combat as well. Then he located the Colonel.

  The flashing green diamond marking their leader's location as just inside the warehouse. Phillips reached over to the keypad strapped to the back of his left arm and switched on a POV screen for Kenslir.

  The small box popped up in his field of vision, slightly above and to the right. It showed the feed from the Colonel. All the gory details.

  "Move out!" Phillips yelled, waving a hand forward. His two men—Victor and Paul— fell into step behind him, while Atlas led his three SEALs forward—Stevens, Johnson and Jacobson.

  The stone soldiers surged ahead, sprinting through the torn-open rollup door of the warehouse, guns at the ready. But they weren't quite ready for the carnage they discovered.

  Colonel Kenslir was holding back the tide of undead, molded corpses in the warehouse. Pieces of at least a dozen were already scattered by the door of the warehouse—sliced up by the two Bowie knives Kenslir was still using.

  The Colonel was running back and forth, taking out legs with bone-cleaving swipes that dropped the reanimated corpses to the concrete. Then he sprinted on to the next.

  Unable to see the Colonel, the eyeless zombies were milling about in confusion, trying to find a way out of the warehouse. Any that strayed near the main rollup door that the van had escaped through, the Colonel chopped into pieces—removing legs and arms to immobilize them. The remainder were all around the building, some nearly at the far end, desperately trying to find another way out.

  It reminded Phillips of a sheepdog trying to herd its flock.

  "Glad you finally could make it," Kenslir said, slashing out with a Bowie. The long steel blade hacked through a reanimated thigh, severing withered muscle and desiccated bone with ease. The suddenly one-legged creature toppled to the ground.

  "Uh," Phillips said. "What's the plan?" He and the other stone soldiers were more than a little confused. No one was shooting at the slowly moving monsters as they shuffled around, unsure of where to go.

  "Containment!" Kenslir shouted, slashing again. Another undead crashed to the ground. Only seventy more of the monsters remained standing. He was making progress. />
  Dean Johnson smiled, slinging his rifle around behind his back. "Looks like fun."

  He smashed out with a fist, exploding a zombie head with the blow. Bone, skin and a spray of yellow-green powder erupted into the air.

  "Whoa! Stifle that crap, Johnson!" Kenslir barked. "They're all carrying spores that need to be kept inside this building. Smashing them to bits is just going to spread the biohazard. I didn't give you a knife for shaving."

  Johnson said nothing, but his stone face revealed he didn't like being scolded. He grabbed at the headless zombie now feebly clawing at him. With his free hand he drew his Bowie and sliced both its legs off.

  "Arms too," Kenslir said, dropping to one knee and quickly removing the arms and remaining leg of his latest target as it tried to crawl away.

  "Crap," Atlas said, dispatching one of the other creatures. He could see the eyeless monsters were now taking notice of the stone soldiers' presence. They could see the petrified men—no doubt due to the magic that had turned them to living stone. "This is going to take all night."

  "Somebody find a fireaxe," Phillips said. At least this was better than laying in an airplane for three hours.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Decklaa trembled with rage. Months spent cultivating her spores and preparing this plan were gone—in one fell swoop by the odd man in black. She couldn't understand how she had even been found out. There was no way anyone should have been able to uncover her plan until it was too late. Even her own followers had been oblivious to the ultimate goal of her plan.

  Still, she had enough canisters left to move on to somewhere else. A smaller stadium, perhaps.

  At last, she reached her destination—the airport. She was surprised she hadn't been attacked enroute. Her escape was almost too easy. But she wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth. It was time to get out of town.

  To do that, she needed to switch vehicles—she couldn't remain hidden long in her van. In addition to the shot out windshield and bullet holes, it had the Gr33ng34r logo in bold letters down the sides.

  Decklaa moved to the rear of the van, throwing open the doors. A company jacket was hanging in the back—she slipped it on to cover the bullet holes in her shirt. Then she turned her attention to the canisters her infected human servants had so carefully loaded.

  She began tearing open boxes, pulling out each canister and tearing the endcaps off. Her fingers elongated, turning into fleshly tentacles that reached into the mix of powder and confetti. She absorbed the spores into her body. She'd carry them inside her for now.

  Once she'd absorbed all the spores, Decklaa closed up the van and headed for the terminal. She briefly considered a rental car, but decided against it. The strange soldier wouldn't dare attack her with civilians around. She'd need to surround herself with innocents. Perhaps a flight?

  Decklaa walked calmly through the airport, which was surprisingly busy for this time of night. She realized it must be people catching flights back home after the Thanksgiving holiday.

  The arrivals and departures monitors showed her all the flights for the next few hours. She couldn't decide. Then she noticed humans passing through a TSA checkpoint. Opening their jackets and removing their shoes.

  Curse the idiots who had tried to hijack several air planes back in 2001. Ever since that attempt to coordinate a terrorist strike on America, the country had considerably beefed up its security. She'd need a change of clothes.

  Or maybe something a little more drastic.

  Decklaa headed for the women's restroom, an evil smile spreading across her child-like face.

  ***

  The first of the local police and fire department vehicles were responding to the area now—scrambled by Miami. They held back several blocks, setting up roadblocks as Kenslir stepped outside of the warehouse, flanked by Jacobson and Stevens.

  "Get that one inside," Kenslir said, pointing to the zombie still fighting the handcuffs holding him to the FBI SUV. "And stay out of sight until the choppers get here."

  "Command?" Kenslir asked. In his field of vision a box appeared, filled with Major Campbell's worried face.

  "We were able to track her to the airport," Campbell said. "She was doing something at the back of the van, then proceeded inside."

  "Ground all the flights. She may be able to change shape," Kenslir said, looking over to Kenji beside him.

  The psychic, now wearing his own augmented glasses again nodded in agreement.

  "Can do. "But then what?"

  Kenslir considered. "We need to identify her—no matter what form she's taken. Send in a Walker."

  "Roger," Campbell said, then his video feed winked out.

  "Walker?" Kenji asked.

  "Ghost Walker. Astral scout," Kenslir said. Then he began walking to the SUV they had arrived in. Jacobson and Stevens had freed the zombie from its rear bumper and were carrying it to the warehouse, holding its wrists and ankles with irresistible strength. It groaned and hissed as it tried to break free.

  "Phillips, you're in charge," Kenslir said. "I'm headed after the girl."

  "Roger that," Phillips said over the visors' comm channel. "We'll ensure the scene is secure before we get airborne again."

  Kenslir slipped behind the wheel of the SUV, starting the engine as Kenji got in on the passenger’s side.

  "Let's see if we can't stop another apocalypse."

  ***

  She had to wait a long time for just the right woman. So many had come and gone in the airport bathroom. Women from different walks of life, with different wardrobe. She supposed it was silly to be so choosey, but like the humans suggested, she had always dressed for success.

  The right woman finally came in—a pale-skinned thing with a spray tan who'd had a lot enhanced over the years, desperately trying to not look her age. Her teased black hair hung way down her back and she wore a thick fur coat over a sparkling, sequined gold dress that matched excessive amounts of jewelry.

  The fur decided her—this human saw no problem wearing the hide of a lesser animal. She would be the one. Irony, the humans called it.

  Decklaa opened the door of her stall and walked out, approaching the woman from behind. She stepped up next to her at the long row of sinks. The woman was touching up her lipstick. She smiled at Decklaa—a polite smile that almost hid the contempt she had for anyone she deemed less than her.

  Decklaa smiled back and fluffed her own hair. "I like your earrings."

  "Thank, you," the woman said, robotically. She wasn't in a talkative mood.

  Decklaa turned and looked at the woman for several seconds. Then she reached out. "Where did you get them?"

  "Paris," the woman said, now working on her eyeliner. She pretended to ignore Decklaa's hand as it came closer to her ear and the large, dangling hoops of gold.

  Decklaa's suddenly hand shot forward, a blur moving too fast to follow. Instead of touching the earring, it slipped behind the woman's head and grabbed a handful of hair. Then Decklaa slammed the startled woman's head down, on the edge of the countertop.

  Bone crunched at the impact and the woman's body went limp. Decklaa held the corpse up by the hair, her tiny body possessing far more strength than the bejeweled fur wearer would have ever guessed.

  Decklaa dragged the corpse over to one of the stalls, and wedged it, standing up, into the corner, beside the toilet. Then Decklaa leaned over, flushed the toilet, and melted.

  It was a rapid liquefaction—Decklaa's body turning to thick fluid in seconds and pouring into the toilet. The liquid was quickly sucked down the porcelain commode, swirling away with the water. Most of it. A bit remained behind, nearly bubbling over the edge. This congealed into a single column that rose up, cobra-like, then poured into the fur wearer’s mouth.

  The body jerked and spasmed, then the eyes snapped open. The broken skin on the forehead mended and the blood coming out of the body's nose soaked back into the skin.

  Decklaa stood, brushing off the dress on this new body.
The stiletto heels were a bit much, but she managed, dipping low and picking up the clothes and shoes she had been wearing in her last body.

  She carried them out of the stall and stuffed them into the garbage can by the door. Then she moved to the mirror and digging in a slim, sequined purse that matched her dress. She quickly found what she needed and put on a fresh coating of makeup.

  "Much better," Decklaa said.

  With a final toss of her hair, she walked out of the bathroom, digging in the purse again. She located her airline ticket, and was happy to see the destination—Las Vegas. Yes, that would work.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  The TSA agents had thoroughly enjoyed feeling Decklaa's new body up as they searched her. An easy task considering all she wore was the sequined dress, her hooker heels and the fur. The owner of the body she had stolen did not appear to believe in undergarments, even in chilly November.

  Decklaa proceeded to the gate, checking in at the counter and presenting her ticket.

  "I'm terribly sorry, ma'am, but all of our flights have been grounded," a young woman at the counter said.

  "Sorry?" Decklaa asked, confused. Just a few hours ago, the incoming and outgoing flights had been on schedule, more or less.

  "There's been a problem with the control tower—but they think it'll be fixed shortly."

  "I'll just wait over here," Decklaa said, smiling insincerely with her big, injected lips. She walked over and found a seat by the window, looking out at the plane waiting to take her and so many others west.

  Dammit. Her luck was just not holding. Maybe she should have gotten the car after all. She noticed a man seated across from her staring at her new body. She moved her legs so he could see up her dress. Maybe she'd have a little fun to pass the time while she waited.

  The man grinned from ear to ear, his wrinkled, tan skin flushing a bit. Even with his muttonchops and comb over, he looked fit enough to keep her occupied for a little while. Humans were so vain, but to her, they all looked basically the same. One was just as good as another. Even if he was wearing matching snake skin pants and a jacket and possibly more jewelry than her.