Peterson stared at Armstrong for a few moments. “You used to be like a brother to me,” he said.
“And you to me,” Armstrong responded, without emotion.
Peterson turned to him. “What changed?”
Armstrong looked down at his feet, thinking. “You have always had leadership. People look at you in the eyes. Sometimes, it is like I do not even exist.”
“I don’t understand,” Peterson said.
“You have always had her,” Armstrong responded.
Peterson was confused. “Had who?”
“Sharon,” Armstrong stated.
Peterson responded with dash of confusion. “Sharon? What does she have to do with anything?”
“I’m here for Sharon,” Armstrong said, unable to meet Peterson’s eyes.
There was still bewilderment in Peterson’s voice. “What about Sharon?”
Armstrong turned and moved into Peterson’s face. “She’s pregnant.”
“Pregnant?” All Peterson could do was echo Armstrong’s words.
“She’s carrying my baby.”
It took a long moment, and once Peterson was able to hear Armstrong’s words, the reason why his one-time best friend, Armstrong, had turned so viciously against him suddenly became clear. And the betrayal by Sharon. How could she? She was the only woman Peterson had ever loved, and his love for her was bottomless. Recently, she was beginning to forgive him for his past mistakes. But to have a love affair with, of all people, his best friend? And she’d been holding this secret all along, lying to Peterson. Liars, both of them.
What Peterson felt in his chest was worse than a knife. He felt like he was just gutted from the inside out. The pain was unbearable. Then he felt rage, unbearable rage. He wanted to rip Armstrong’s eyes from their sockets. Peterson caught himself and took a deep breath. He reasoned with himself.
Sharon and I were not together before all of this started. I made my mistakes in the past. She never vowed loyalty to me, made me no promises.
I don’t have the right to judge her.
But … when the time is right … I’m going to kill him.
Peterson took a deep breath and walked up to Armstrong. Acting like the consummate professional, he pretended to put his personal feelings aside. “Now the air is cleared between us.”
“That’s it?” Armstrong was cautious. “You forgive me just like that?”
“Having division in this group has been dangerous. No matter what is going on between you and me, and Sharon, we have to be professional. From this moment forward I want you to give me your word you will fall in line and follow my orders.”
Armstrong exhaled deeply. His secret had been weighing heavily on him. “I promised to Sharon I wouldn’t tell you but I just had to. Maybe we’ll never be friends again, Commander. But now I can follow you again. I’ll fall in line and do my job.”
To Peterson a lot was starting making sense now: He understood why Armstrong initially did not wish to leave the basement and carry on with the mission; he understood why Armstrong had become so combative toward him, and attempted to take control of the team. Armstrong was envious of him, and wanted to steal his very identity. Peterson would forgive momentarily, but he would not forget.
“I won’t say anything to Sharon,” Peterson said, tersely. “Now, let’s go check out that foghorn.”
*
They stood on a rocky beach as waves of water soaked Peterson’s boots. The ocean breeze was on their faces. It was inspiring. Peterson thought of the priest back in the basement, and what he had said.
If you want redemption, succeed in this mission.
The group stood together, taking in the view. They had made it. The cawing of a lone seagull startled Peterson out of the moment. He sharply rotated to see where it was coming from and, to his amazement, saw a lone empty boat, chugging toward a small dock that was nearby. Peterson could make out a person behind the wheel.
“Ship ahoy!” a scratchy voice screamed out.
“Now this is something I didn’t expect,” Peterson exclaimed.
Sharon stood beside him. “Be careful.”
The boat slowly crept to the side of the dock. A rusty old sailor with a white beard and mustache manned the small ship. “Are you Commander Peterson?” the voice shouted over the rumble of the outboard engine.
Peterson stepped forward, taken aback that the man knew his name. “I am Commander Peterson, and who the hell are you?”
The boat’s dashboard lights cast an eerie glow, illuminating the man’s face. He was gray-haired, probably in his late sixties. “My friends just call me Skipper.”
The exhaust fumes from the boat’s outboard engine filled the air. “Would you mind telling me how you know my name, Skipper?”
“Picked up a signal on my radio, soldier. It was the nurse from Mercy Hospital.”
“Nurse Dee?” Peterson said.
“Don’t be afraid, young man, I’m the only one left alive around here. Now, are you going to sit there and talk all night or get your ass on board my boat?”
*
It was a ratty old fishing vessel with barely enough room for everybody to fit into. The fog was still thick, filling Peterson’s nostrils and making him feel damp. He stood in the small cabin with the skipper, who held the steering wheel with one hand and a spotlight with another. He used the beam of light to cut through the fog and help navigate.
“Gotta be careful of the floaters,” Skipper said. “They can get caught in the engine.”
Peterson noticed the water was slick with something like oil. It was blood. Peterson strained to see more. There were bodies in the water, still moving. Splashing like infants learning how to swim.
“The nurse told me all about you. I believe I know where you’re headed. Every fisherman in these parts knows that island. It is what urban legends are made of. We always knew some spooky shit was going down there.” The captain reached under the console and took out a flask of bourbon. He took a swig.
“So much for classified information,” Armstrong said with a grunt. He reached over and took the skipper’s flask of bourbon, taking a swig himself.
“Don’t get me wrong,” Skipper said. “Nobody would go near that island. Boats that did usually were never seen again.” The skipper turned toward Armstrong, took back the whiskey, and took another drink. “Where were you when this all started?”
Armstrong took the flask back. “I can’t remember anymore.”
The skipper’s voice became sad. “I was with my old lady Marge when it started. We met as far back as high school. Married for thirty-nine years. We didn’t have any surviving children. My youngest, he died of cancer when he was just a boy, and my oldest was K.I.A. in the Iraq War. After speaking to that nurse, I figured I had a chance to help out some soldiers.”
The skipper’s voice began to tremble. “I was washing dishes, listening to the radio. I had just cooked a sea bass, Marge’s favorite. She was nervous about the whole thing, the radio reports. I, on other hand, was more interested in which seasoning to cook with.” The skipper snatched the flask back from Armstrong, took a gulp, and wiped his lips dry with his forearm. “I mean, come on, people getting up and walking like the dead? Just the news bullshitting for high ratings, for all I was concerned.”
The skipper stopped and looked out at the fog, his eyes glazing over. “I thought the noise I heard in the backyard was just our local raccoon, as usual. That’s when I heard Marge scream.” The skipper wiped a tear from his eye. “Gotta love the Lord, it should have been me. It should have been freaking me, but when I saw that thing eating my wife, my Lord…my Lord.” The skipper began to sob.
Armstrong put his hand on the Skipper’s shoulder. “I am sorry about your wife.”
Peterson took a deep breath. “I feel your pain, Skipper, and I am sorry for it. And you’re right, some spooky shit was taking place on that island, and that’s why we need to get there. Will you help us?”
CHAPTER 9
It was dawn, and the fog had lifted to reveal an incoming storm. The ocean was rough, white crests dotting the horizon. Wind and ocean spray whipped the face of Commander Jacob Peterson, but he didn’t flinch. He stood on the bow of the fishing boat, his eyes focused on what lay just ahead.
Peterson knew the boat wouldn’t take them much farther. It was leaning heavily, and taking on water. But he no longer cared that the boat was sinking. They were almost there, and while he had serious doubts earlier, he now knew they would actually make it.
They still had a very rough hundred yards to go before reaching the island’s shore, and if Peterson had learned one thing since the outbreak of this global pandemic, it was that death comes in the most unusual ways, and at the most unexpected times. Nothing could be taken for granted, not even a hundred yards.
Peterson’s jaws clenched in painful anticipation. He felt as though he were being pulled by a mysterious force, as if the destination had been calling him his entire life—a life which was a winding maze of pain, war, disappointment, and loneliness.
When Peterson first enlisted in the Special Forces, he had believed in the United States and what it stood for: protecting freedom, defending the weak, and all the other ideals dedicated soldiers held dear. But decades of war had taken a toll. His life stopped making sense. All the gruesome horrors of war and the countless thousands of people he had killed began to haunt him. Day by day his soul slowly starved, like a corpse being picked by a vulture. He had come to realize that, in the end, he wasn’t a hero; he was just a trained killer, a federal asset to be used and, if necessary, disposed of.
Then the infection swept the world, and all of that changed.
Here he was, somehow still alive, unlike so many millions who had died, and before him, just yards ahead, lay a piece of the puzzle, a piece of the solution. That island held the key; maybe it held the answers to what the epidemic was exactly, and how it came to be—and if they were really lucky, a solution.
For every mistake he had ever made, for every act he regretted, before Peterson stood the very thing that could give his failures meaning, give his lies truth, his regrets redemption, and his life meaning. Succeed today, thought Peterson, and everything that came before in his life was for a reason, and a purpose he never could have predicted.
“There it is.” Dr. Washington appeared by Peterson’s side. He spoke loud enough to be heard over the waves. “I thought we’d never make it.” Washington pointed to the island’s dock. “It’s empty,” he said.
Standing on the bow of the boat, they could see the island clearly, and also the lab station. Surrounded by a chain-link, barbed-wire fence, it was a glooming structure which was as welcoming as an insane asylum.
Peterson didn’t respond to Dr. Washington. His eyes remained fixed forward. To Peterson, words were no longer necessary. In the water, not far from the island’s dock, there was a sunken vessel, part of its body still visible. Peterson took careful note as the skipper navigated around it. The island appeared deserted as the Skipper glided the boat alongside the island’s dock. Armstrong got out of the boat and tied it to a mooring.
Peterson made hand gestures to the team. Cash, Johnny-Boy, and Sharon jumped out of the boat and moved forward in perfect harmony, point lockstep. They leap-frogged forward and established positions to provide cover fire. The ominous building was before them.
Sergeant Armstrong reached down and felt the ground, letting the soil run through his fingers. Something bothered him.
Commander Peterson kneeled next to Armstrong. “What is it?”
“Someone left us an open invitation,” Armstrong said matter-of-fact, gesturing to the open main gate. On the horizon, the sky was darkening, the looks of a wrathful storm. There was thunder, a brilliant flash of lightning.
Armstrong looked at the sky. “It’s the devil, and it’s coming our way.”
Peterson turned to Cash. “Cover us.”
On cue, Armstrong and Peterson ran through the gates, providing areas of intersecting cover for each other. Peterson dropped and squatted. Armstrong then ran past Peterson’s position and did the same. Peterson saw the laboratory, now up close. It’s wasn’t much, just a windowless government brick-and-mortar building, but his attention was drawn away. Just ahead of them was a U.S. Assault chopper, demolished. It appeared to have crashed landed. Flames flickered from its charred hull. Peterson and Armstrong advanced on the chopper and took cover behind it. Inside the cockpit was a corpse, burned to a crisp.
“Maybe another team arrived before us,” Armstrong said, looking at the chopper. “Maybe they counted us out.”
This idea didn’t bother Peterson. “Can you blame them?”
Closer to the building was a capsized Jeep, dead on its side. Peterson took note of it and waved his hand. Cash, Sharon, and Johnny-Boy leap-frogged forward, canvassing the courtyard as they ran past the chopper, reached the Jeep, and propped their weapons on it. Dr. Washington couldn’t keep up. He arrived next to Peterson, running, out of breath. Derek, Barbara, and Johann were behind him, taking up the rear.
“Slow down,” Dr. Washington panted. “The rest of us can’t keep up.”
Peterson ignored Washington and moved forward, sweeping for danger, arriving at a doorway. Above it read Department of Defense Research Sector 10.
The team held their defensive formation and swept for danger as Peterson took hold of the doorknob and turned. It was unlocked.
Peterson addressed Dr. Washington. “Do you know our exact position?”
“This is the entrance to the west wing,” Dr. Washington responded, nervous. “It will lead us right to the main terminal.”
“And that’s where Dr. Winthrop is believed to be?” Johnny-Boy asked.
“That was his last known position,” Dr. Washington responded.
“Doors open,” exclaimed Peterson. “We’re going in so keep tight and do this by the numbers. Our target is Dr. Winthrop, nothing else.”
“But there may be other survivors, Commander,” Dr. Washington said.
“They are not part of our directive,” Armstrong responded coldly.
“But they can be of value,” argued Dr. Washington.
Peterson considered his words. “If we come across any other survivors, we’ll deal with it then. Watch your asses.”
With a nod of understanding they didn’t waste any more time. They entered the building.
The team provided fire cover at all angles. At first all they experienced was blackness. Their eyes slowly adjusted, and soon they realized they were standing in a lobby. A security station sat vacant, paperwork scattered about. A vending machine was toppled on its side, with its glass smashed and soda cans strewn about. Cash and Sharon swept the room in perfect harmony, point lockstep. Nothing was moving.
“Clear,” Cash barked.
The rest of the group entered the building. As their eyes adjusted, they noticed the beaten up condition of the place.
“Seems like we missed the party.” Cash smirked.
Peterson noticed a corridor and cautiously looked down it. Fluorescent lights were buzzing and flickering. The end of the corridor was in shadow. Dr. Washington appeared beside him. The lights flickered again.
“The main electrical grid must be damaged,” said Dr. Washington. “This is the west wing central corridor. It’s the most direct way toward the center of the complex. If he’s still alive, that is where Dr. Winthrop would be.”
“Then this is where we are going,” Peterson stated. “Armstrong, take point.”
Armstrong entered the corridor cautiously, slowly. He raised his rifle and swept for danger. The team followed.
Peterson was unnerved. There was something that just was not right about this place. It was dead silent and empty. The feeling in the back of Peterson’s neck was telling him that this place had been evacuated a long time ago, even though mission orders had said nothing about an evacuation. And even if the people here could evacuate, where the hell would they go? The
faint sound of static suddenly broke the silence.
Armstrong held up his fist.
Everybody stopped and squatted.
“Firefight,” Armstrong said blankly.
Peterson saw what he was referring to. There were bullet holes in the walls, ceilings, and floor. And there was blood, a lot of it, which left a trail heading toward the end of the hallway. Armstrong reached out and touched something else on the wall.
“What is it?” asked Peterson.
Armstrong looked at Peterson. “Someone was scratching at the walls.”
“Sign of engagement,” Peterson said.
“There were at least three people here.” Armstrong pointed to the left and right wall. “Three machine guns at least. Looks like at least one person got shot, maybe two…and someone was clawing for their life.”
Peterson looked over his shoulder and saw the team was growing inpatient. Sharon’s eyes were shifting rapidly, and a bead of sweat dripped down Johnny-Boy’s face.
“I got a bad feeling about this place,” Johnny-Boy remarked with a mild sense of fear.
Sharon’s voice sounded almost the same. “Say that again.”
“Okay, guys, hear that static? That’s where we are going,” Peterson said with a steady voice. “Stay tight. Move out.”
The flickering lights left the team in and out of darkness as they proceeded down the hallway. The static grew louder the farther down the hallway they moved.
“Commander, we’re just about on top of the noise,” Cash said.
“I hear it, Cash,” Peterson responded.
A doorway was before them. A machete, matted with blood, stuck out of it, as if someone had been trying to chop it open. From behind the door came the sputtering static. Peterson took a glance at Armstrong. They made firm eye contact, acknowledging the danger that could be behind the door.
Armstrong provided cover with his assault rifle as Peterson gently turned the knob. He pushed … the door swung open silently.
Peterson cautiously entered, and what he saw surprised him. Rows and rows of LCD screens aligned the wall, all of which had lost their picture. Some screens were blank, while others flickered snow. There was a console, the control panel, which had been partially demolished, its mechanical entrails ripped out.
Dead and Back (The Zombie Crisis--Book 2) Page 9