Joseph’s mouth fell open a bit. Lives for escape. Is this all it will ever be? A never-ending dwindling supply of people until we are all gone? He must make it to Michigan at any cost. It was the only choice he had. It was the only choice they had even if they refused to believe it.
The diesel engine grumbled its complaints, and the mobile lounge filled with too few soldiers and a few civilians drove onward. Every now and then a machine gun would ring out, and it made Joseph’s heart speed up. At any moment he expected to leave the safety of the mover for the carnage of the streets again.
Joseph asked Mauser to instruct him on the reload process, which the man went over in detail. Showing him quickly, with large deft fingers.
“If you can manipulate your weapon well, it will cut off time from the important parts of shooting that you need to take slow, like pulling the trigger.”
Joseph nodded dumbly. He was not used to being on the learning end of a lecture, but weirder things had happened, like the dead waking up again. By the end of the lesson, Joseph was impressed with the man and his methods.
Mauser looked at him earnestly. “You want to keep your weapon up and running at all times. The less time it is ‘down,’ the more safe you are, and the less likely something or someone is going to kill you.”
Joseph liked his teaching style: simple.
Mauser gave him a wide smile. “I saw you take down one of them out there. I also saw you drop your magazine.”
“Guns were never my thing,” Joseph said sheepishly.
“Better start learning, but while I am here you will always have a guardian angel looking over your shoulder,” Mauser said with a wink.
“Thanks, Mauser. You have saved my life more times than I can count,” he said.
Mauser slapped him on the shoulder. “I’m sure you will return the favor.”
Inside, Joseph cringed. Can I save a nation with stage four terminal cancer?
KINNICK
Mount Eden Emergency Operations Facility, VA
The remainders of Bowie Squad dashed to the helicopters. The helicopters lay at rest, rotor blades bowed down.
Master Sergeant Hunter whistled a high-pitched note when they neared the helicopters.
A low whistle met Master Sergeant Hunter’s high one, and Sergeant Hawkins materialized from the grass like a ghost. Master Sergeant Hunter wasn’t fazed by his sudden appearance.
“Hawkins. Remove Esparza from our roster. I sent him home. Any issues up top?” The half-Asian man gave Master Sergeant Hunter a slight nod and removed a small notepad from his vest pocket. “No issues that we couldn’t handle. Cause of death?”
“Infection.”
“Skins aren’t fairing so well. We are already above Vietnam casualty rates.”
“I know that, Hawkins, but while there is one of us remaining, the Skins are in the fight.”
“The Indian Wars was the only conflict with higher casualty rates in our unit’s history,” Sergeant Hawkins said.
“There is still plenty of time yet,” Master Sergeant Hunter said.
“Sins and Skins, Hunter.”
“Sins and Skins, Hawkins. Make sure you get it down. There needs to be a record for the next of kin.”
Sergeant Hawkins scribbled notes on his pad.
Kinnick was silent. He gave Hunter a look of inquiry.
“Standard procedure. We will get word to his family if they can be contacted.” Master Sergeant Hunter walked off to the helos. Sergeant Gibson knelt inside the first helicopter.
“Gibson, relay to General Travis that Mount Eden is a bust. No doctor. One civilian. Alive.” The short communications sergeant nodded, bringing General Travis abreast of their report.
Fifteen minutes later the remainders of Bowie Squad sat on the edge of their helo, eating under the watchful eye of Crockett Squad. Kinnick, Lewis, and Hunter used the cabin of the Black Hawk as a bench.
“What’d you get?” Lewis asked. He leaned a broad shoulder into Kinnick to get a glance at Kinnick’s meal. The man had already put down two MRE packs.
“Chili mac with beans.” Kinnick took his spoon and stirred the brownish mixture in an attempt to make it more appetizing. I’m lucky to have food.
“Whew. Lucky I didn’t get my paws on that.”
“I bet we are, Sergeant.”
The wind spun a tarp end over end, blowing it over top of the grass. Almost peaceful. The silence of nature atop the mountain was tranquil as if the animals were all gone and Kinnick’s men were truly alone. Perhaps this was the Great Flood. Instead of water, God sent a scourge of infected people. Take everyone out in one fell swoop. Would have been a lot easier just to drown us all, instead of forcing some of us to fight tooth and nail against each other for an insignificant existence.
“Sir, we got an incoming message from General Travis,” Gibson called over from the passenger side of the helicopter, his ear glued to a headset. Kinnick handed his meal to Lewis.
“Have at it, soldier.”
Lewis held up the tan MRE packet. “Sir, you don’t mind?”
Kinnick shook his head. These men never ceased to amaze him. Lewis shoveled the food into his mouth like it was his last meal.
Kinnick picked up the receiver. “This is Kinnick,” he said.
“Kinnick, this is Travis.”
“Good to hear your voice, sir,” he said.
“Yours as well. We received a communiqué from NORTHCOM stating that the Pittsburgh Quarantine has failed; multiple bases have been overrun.” General Travis had a few less pieces on his United States chess board. “Remaining units are being instructed to retreat west.”
Relief for the Pentagon just got a little further away.
“Yes sir,” Kinnick said, a bit softer.
“This is the important part: The CO of the Pittsburgh quarantine, Colonel Jackson, stated that he is moving west with a group of civilians. He has commandeered an airport mobile lounge from those civilians,” General Travis said.
Another commander disregarding orders on treatment of civilians.
“The communiqué states that Colonel Jackson has a civilian doctor in his group, a doctor from Mount Eden. This might be our guy. I need you to get to Pittsburgh ASAP. Quarantine Base Rattlesnake is their last known location. We can’t get them on the line so you are going to need to get a visual on them.”
“Yes, sir. We are moving now,” Kinnick said.
“And Colonel.”
“Yes.”
“Stay alive out there.”
“I will do my best, sir.”
“That is all we can ask. Find the doctor.”
“Copy that, General, sir.”
Master Sergeant Hunter stood nearby, catching bits and pieces of the conversation, hands resting on the butt of his slung M4. His beard pressed to his chest.
“Master Sergeant. We need to be operational in twenty mikes; we got a hit on our guy,” Kinnick said.
Master Sergeant Hunter smiled through his thick beard. “Yes, sir. All right men, you heard the colonel. Let’s make this party mobile.”
The men geared up, hustling from helicopter to helicopter. How in the hell did that doctor get to Pittsburgh? Kinnick thought.
Kinnick had almost forgotten the sickly thin girl sitting on the edge of the helicopter, blanket wrapped around her narrow shoulders. She gripped it tight as if she would never part from it. Natalie Berman. She was Representative Berman’s daughter. Twenty-one years old. Senior at Georgetown University. Biology major.
Kinnick had to make a decision that would dictate whether she lived or died. Follow orders and leave her here for rescue, meaning she would certainly die. In fact, he would be so responsible, he might as well just shoot her in the head now and get it over with. It was a mercy compared to the suffering she had been through, and the suffering she would surely endure at the hands of the infected. Although Kinnick had space onboard the helos, she was a non-mission priority. Civilians were collateral damage. Their safety was the lowest prior
ity. Can I leave her in good conscience?
“Natalie. Everything is going to be okay,” he said. She looked at him with a thousand-yard stare, her eyes never focusing on one thing. She could have been pretty once, but now she just looked like a mangy scared rat. He patted her shoulder, trying to be comforting, and she flinched under his touch. He pulled his hand away, saddened. He waved Master Sergeant Hunter over.
“We have space for her, right?” he said.
“Mission priorities state that we are not to aid civilians if it endangers our mission in any way, sir,” Master Sergeant Hunter said, standing in a relaxed yet aggressive stance.
“Master Sergeant Hunter, do you think that she will jeopardize our mission?” he said.
“Sir. If she makes one of my guys a half-second slower than he needs to be she could jeopardize the mission, but at this point, there is not much left to jeopardize. I know this is a wild fucking pig hunt out here. I do not expect to come back alive. Sins and Skins,” Master Sergeant Hunter said.
Kinnick nodded. Things were plain for Master Sergeant Hunter. Get the job done. Follow protocol when it was needed. Don’t follow it when it wasn’t necessary. Give your life if needed and hope it meant something. Or just be a soldier of fortune. Kinnick’s job was to see the bigger picture. Keep Master Sergeant Hunter and his men pointed in the right direction. Although, at this point, any direction would do. Enemies were everywhere.
“Good, she is riding with us then,” he said.
After Kinnick had Master Sergeant Hunter redistribute his men across the helos, they reached Pittsburgh in less than two hours. In just enough time to find the bases along the outside of the city overrun.
Quarantine Base Cobra was burnt to the ground. QB Adder was overrun. They hovered over QB Boa for fifteen minutes thinking they saw signs of the living, but nothing came of it. They circled the city, looking for signs of life. Things moved, but none of them were alive.
“Master sergeant, can we get a comm link with any of the bases below,” Kinnick asked.
“No links coming up, sir.”
“Keep searching. Somebody has to be alive down there.”
“What do you think about setting down at QB Rattlesnake? It’s atop Mount Washington,” Kinnick asked his NCO.
Master Sergeant Hunter took a moment to put a large pinch of chew into his cheek and spit the residual long cut from his mouth. He tapped Sergeant Lewis’s big shoulder and he turned, taking the tin.
“I wouldn’t put down in the middle of those Zulus if I had too. There is no real good way to do it. That is my honest opinion, sir,” Master Sergeant Hunter said. Kinnick nodded. He understood the man. He couldn’t see anything good happening from setting down either.
“But, we will, if you order us to, and I will make sure we come out alive,” Master Sergeant Hunter said with a smirk. “But Lewis over there,” he pointed at the bear man leaning off the side of the chopper, “I’m pretty sure he won’t make it,” he said.
“Fuck off, you little rabbit turd,” Lewis shouted back. “They can take my gun from my dead lifeless fingers.”
Kinnick stared at the abandoned city below. His men were the problem solvers at a micro level. Speed, surprise, and aggression. The only problem was that he didn’t have an infinite number of these honorable warriors to toss into the meat grinder. Even if he did, for every man he lost, it added to the enemy’s ranks. He wasn’t going to lose more men over a pointless search.
“Let’s take these birds north of Pittsburgh to Corapolis. Refuel and search again.”
The pilots turned the birds north, leaving the City of Bridges behind.
Master Sergeant Hunter gave him a wave, his gloved hand pointing down below. “Crockett is reporting a civilian watercraft running on the river,” he said.
“How are we on fuel?”
“Got enough for a few passes,” the pilot voice echoed in his headset.
“Good. Send Crockett up to Corapolis to refuel and we will swing in and take a look at our amphibious friends,” Kinnick said.
“Roger that, Crockett out,” the pilot crackled in his mic.
Kinnick felt the pilot tilt the chopper slightly downwards and they began their descent. His gut dropped like a dip on a roller coaster ride. He hated that feeling and tightened his harness.
STEELE
Monongahela River, Pittsburgh, PA
Steele tightened his pack to his shoulders, pulling down hard on the shoulder straps. The pack was light. It only held a long length of rope, some extra mags, and some water. He strapped his M4 carbine across his back and tapped the handle of his tomahawk to make sure it was there. He was bootless, opting for climbing the pillar barefoot.
The saviors of the West sat before him. Ahmed, a twenty-something, former collegiate baseball player, held his arm in a crappy sling. EOD Specialist Barnes, an old timer with a big belly hanging over his belt, pulled at the furry mustache on his lip. Everything hinges on us.
“Make sure to secure that rope to something heavy at the top. I will send up the explosives, and then I will follow up,” Barnes said. The boat rocked slightly in the water. The thrashing of the infected had died down, and bodies that had once writhed now lay still.
“I will see you two SOBs later,” Steele said. He stepped out of the boat and hugged the wall. The bridge had been built using large indented stone blocks making climbing an easier task. His fingers dug into the cracks, and he was off at a snail’s pace.
After two minutes of struggling, Barnes shouted at him. “Christ, boy. If you move any slower I may die of old age by the time you reach the top.”
“Is that a promise?” Steele grunted down at him.
“No. I come from a long line of centenarians.”
Steele looked down at the man burning a cigarette between his teeth. Still close enough that if he fell, he didn’t think it would hurt, as long as he landed in the water. Barnes gave him a little wave, shooing him up the pillar. Nice and easy, Steele. No point in falling and having to start over again.
About halfway, his fingers began to cramp. He flexed his fatigued hands one at a time and chanced a look downward. He immediately regretted it. The water seemed to be infinitely far away, and he felt like he couldn’t get close enough to the concrete. His heartbeat hammered in his chest. Heights were one of his greatest fears.
Steele hated roller coasters. He hated climbing ladders, yet here he was free-climbing a bridge pillar. He took deep breaths, but it only seemed to heighten his state of panic. He would have to climb down and have Barnes do the initial climb. It was the only way. His feet locked into place, frozen mid-climb. Every tiny breeze threatened to blow him off the pillar. He gripped tighter, and his toes curled, unable to go up or down.
“You chicken shit. Come on, climb,” Steele whispered to himself. I can’t. I can’t do it. He hugged the rock close, feeling the sturdiness of the structure beneath his skin. He knew Barnes and Ahmed watched him, but even the pressure to help them and their mission was easily dismissed in his mind.
Steele closed his eyes and rested his face on the cool rock. The faint splashes of the dead reached his ears. The moans of the dead above him pushed down onto his ears. He tried to clear his mind. He centered his thoughts and they formed into a portrait of Gwen. Not Apocalypse Gwen, but Gwen from before. Blonde hair hung around her shoulders. Her lips curved up into a smile. Her eyes twinkled like she knew a joke that only she had the answer to.
“Come to me,” she whispered. He let her fade, finding strength in her.
It struck him deep inside. If he wanted to see her again, he would have to do this. The only choice was up. He had to make it to the top. Not only Gwen depended on him, but the men below depended on him. Colonel Jackson was depending on him. Hundreds, no, thousands of lives depended on him getting to the top, and planting the charges, that would blow the bridges. No more looking back. Steele focused on the steel girders crossing the bottom of the double decker highway bridge.
He ignored the wi
nd that threatened to blow him off as it tugged at his hair, clothes, and pack, sending his M4 tossing and turning on his back like it was having a sleepless night. His body couldn’t ignore the wind as it made his wet clothes chilled. His limbs shook as he pushed them onward.
Hand over hand, he crawled to the top of the pillar. He crouched at the top, on a foot-wide ledge where the bridge attached to the pillar. He caught his breath and would not turn around; not wanting to risk freezing up again.
Inches from his head, a maintenance hatch to the highway swung loosely open. It screeched back and forth in the wind. May as well be a tornado siren. Steele gazed through the opening, waiting for threats. Nothing waited above, but he could hear them.
Moans pricked his ears. It was eerie to hear the dead human voices, but no other sounds of the city. No rumbles of traffic or honking of horns. A couple hundred feet in the air, with no option of retreat, the sound had a particular “pucker effect” on Steele. Must be quiet, no place for gung-ho heroes here.
He grabbed a rung of the ladder one hand at a time until he reached the hatch. He inched his head above the hatch, steeling himself for anything. The bottom highway lay dark and abandoned, untouched by either car lights or sunlight. The cars stood rigid, recreating their owners’ final attempted flight from the city, like an old black and white photo. They were in a junkyard motorcade.
All the vehicles were pointed the same way, attempting to escape through the Fort Penn Tunnel that led out of Pittsburgh and through Mount Washington. Safety lay only through the mountain. He wondered how many people made it through the tunnel before it was closed. All of these people had been trapped until the infected came for them, knowing full well that freedom was just on the other side of the mountain.
Steele quietly slipped himself over and up onto the bridge, bringing his carbine up to his shoulder as he scanned for infected. Maybe having a bunch of the bastards jump into the water wasn’t such a bad thing. He moved to a crouch, still scanning, and stood up further, using the cars as cover. Heads bounced into and out of view in the distance. Good for right now. Bad for planting the charges.
The End Time Saga (Book 2): The Breaking Page 27