“Watch out for the traps!” Dohi yelled.
Having fallen back to help Martin, he couldn’t guide the group through the forest. Most of the Wolfhounds started to slow, ducking low as the gunfire blasted into tree trunks, but most kept running.
A scream rang out, fading as a pit swallowed the man.
Dohi barreled ahead, surveying the place for traps as fast as he could, yelling at the Wolfhounds to fall in line. The gunfire soon quieted, and Dohi looked back, expecting to see their ambushers flooding across the freeway.
But instead, only a high-pitched chanting followed them.
Screams, like victorious war cries.
As the team faded back into the forest, terror filled Dohi to his very core. This enemy was more dangerous than the Variants. They were organized, knew the terrain, and were well armed. And they were standing in the way of the SDS equipment that could help prevent the entire Allied States from collapse.
One way or another, Team Ghost would have to make it onto that campus again.
***
Timothy sat on the bench inside his cell, rubbing his neck where Nick had implanted a chip under his skin. The tracking device, along with the collar around his neck made it pretty much impossible for him to escape.
That meant it would be even more difficult to bring this place down and kill the collaborators. From what he had seen over the past few days, he doubted even the president knew just how well prepared these people and the monsters were for war.
He had to expose this place and these people.
He couldn’t do it alone. He needed help.
Not from people like Beckham and Horn though. They had abandoned him and let his dad die.
What Timothy needed were people who were dependable and brave.
“Hey…” mumbled a female voice.
Timothy got off the bench he was sitting on. He went to the bars of his holding cell. The woman who Nick had drugged earlier was standing on shaking legs and looking at him from the opposite cell.
“Hey,” Timothy said back. “What’s your name?”
“Lilly,” she said.
Her sickly pallor was set off by a face that looked like it had once been pretty before the collaborators had gotten here. He feared that was why they’d kept her prisoner.
A frightening thought wormed through his mind. He wondered what the collaborators would do with Tasha if they’d captured her like they had this poor woman.
“Why are you here?” he asked.
She looked down the hall but didn’t respond.
“How long have you been in there?” he tried.
She looked at the ground, and then shook her head.
“You don’t know?” he asked.
“No, only that it’s been a very long time.”
Timothy figured that meant at least a few months.
“You have to help me get out of here,” she said.
Now he said nothing. This wasn’t part of his plan.
Her dark eyes pleaded for help. “I can’t live another day like this.”
She seemed sincere, but he didn’t want to blow his cover. Didn’t want to reveal his false allegiance to the collaborators. This could be another test from Pete, Nick, and Alfred.
“I can’t,” Timothy said. He sat down again and looked away. “I’m sorry.”
“Please,” she begged, gripping the bars. “They do awful things. They use me like…”
Timothy swallowed hard as he listened.
Everything that he suspected in the back of his mind was true.
But he knew conspiring with her would get them both killed and ruin any chance of carrying out his plan of bringing down the entire organization. That was the only way to truly help her. Until this place was discovered, and shut down, her nightmares wouldn’t end.
He focused on coming up with his next steps as the poor woman sobbed.
Pete said Timothy was going to get them into Outpost Portland. Again, he would have to watch, listen, and learn once he was out there. Then maybe he would find an opportunity to fight back or escape.
First, he needed to figure out where this base was located. Then he could tell someone when he was in Portland.
A growling voice snapped him from his thoughts.
“Shut up!” yelled a guard.
The man marched between the cells and hit the bars of Lilly’s cell with a baseball bat. She jumped away and then hurried back to her bed, where she squeezed her legs against her chest and hid behind her knees.
“Stupid bitch,” growled the man. “You’re too damn loud.”
Timothy wanted to say something… no, he wanted to take a knife and stick it in the man’s neck.
But instead he just sat there, biding his time. Listening to the helpless woman whimper. It was one of the hardest things he’d ever had to do.
The only thing holding him back from yelling at the guard was his thirst for revenge.
Finally, the guard retreated to the other room.
An hour or so later the door to the brig opened and more footsteps echoed. Pete was the first man Timothy saw. Nick and Alfred followed, all three dressed in fatigues, armored vests, and duty belts with holstered pistols, sheathed knives, and extra magazines.
They stopped outside his cell.
“You ready to prove yourself?” Pete asked.
“Yeah, it’s about fucking time,” Timothy said.
Pete nodded to Alfred, who unlocked the cell.
“Come on,” Nick said.
Timothy stepped out and followed the men away from the cells. Lilly gazed up and locked eyes with him, but he didn’t give her anything. Not a wink, or a friendly smile, or a nod. Nothing but pity.
Pete took them down a wing of the bunker Timothy hadn’t seen before. Most of the paint had flecked away on the walls that were now covered in grime.
Two more men waited at the end of the next corridor armed with M-16 rifles and dressed in fatigues. It took both men to pull open the steel door at the end.
Beyond the door, a mezzanine stretched across a chamber illuminated by lights built into the walls of another silo. Nick went first, his boots clicking on the metal surface. Alfred and Pete escorted Timothy next. He froze in his tracks halfway across, his eyes locked on something below that couldn’t possibly be real.
“Move it, fuck head,” said one of the guards behind him.
Timothy felt the cold touch of a gun barrel prodding his back, but he didn’t move. Even in the dim lighting there was no mistaking the massive missile below the walkway.
Nick twisted back to face him with a wry grin.
“What?” he asked. “Never seen a ballistic missile before?”
“The government lied about a lot of things before the war,” Nick said. “The world thought the only nuclear missile silos were in North Dakota and Wyoming.”
The butt of a gun slammed Timothy in the back, forcing him forward. He followed Nick to another steel door that the group opened to a narrow metal stairwell.
His mind spun with questions each step up.
Did the missile work?
Were there more?
Was this part of their plan?
The implications nearly took his breath, but he kept his composure. None of that mattered if he screwed up now, and this gave him even more reason to find a way to expose this place.
Alfred opened the door at the top of the stairs, letting in moonlight. This was the first Timothy had seen in days. He waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness until he could make out a field of knee-high weeds rustling in the cold wind.
The men set off across the clearing toward warehouse-style buildings tucked away in a wooded area.
Timothy covertly studied his surroundings, trying to identify the location. But he didn’t recognize this place and had no idea where they might be.
“Eyes ahead,” said a guard. He gave Timothy the butt of his rifle again.
Timothy winced.
Heat rose to his face but he couldn’t l
et himself lose control now.
“You don’t like that, do you?” the man said. He rammed the rifle butt into Timothy’s back again.
This time Timothy couldn’t help it. He turned and glared, teeth gritted.
“You better fucking look forward or I’m going to break your face,” the man growled.
“Keep walking and don’t do anything stupid,” Alfred said.
Timothy hesitated just long enough to memorize the man’s face. He was going on the list of collaborators he would kill first.
They continued until they got to the warehouses. A tall canopy of trees, some still with their leaves, protected the buildings from a bird’s eye view. Camo tarps also helped disguise vehicles and equipment outside.
The double doors to the first warehouse were wide open, revealing another small fleet of vehicles. Pickups, mostly, but a few military-style trucks and a Humvee. There was also a black muscle car.
The collaborators Timothy had seen in the briefing were working inside. Others had joined them. All wore fatigues and body armor with slung rifles and holsters on their hips.
The only man not armed was another guy wearing a collar like Timothy’s.
He was on both knees next to a pickup truck, his gaze on the floor. Timothy was brought over to him and instructed to sit.
The collaborators loaded gear and weapons into their vehicles over the next hour. By the time they had finished, ominous storm clouds rolled over the sky, masking the stars and moon. The first clap of thunder sounded, rattling the metal walls of the warehouse.
“All right, listen up,” Pete said.
The collaborators clustered around him.
“We’re headed back to Outpost Portland to finish the job,” Pete said. “We’ve softened their defenses, and now our job is to blow holes through what they have left so the beasts can get in.”
Several hollers broke out.
“Burn it to the fucking ground,” one of the men said.
“The heretics deserve to die,” said another.
Pete raised a hand, and the space quieted.
“Once Portland is gone, we will all be rewarded with a visit from our master,” Pete said. “No more mistakes. Our time is almost here, and once this is complete, we will be headed into the final reckoning.”
The men’s features transformed from excitement to fear, shadows playing over them with each distant strike of lightning.
“This has been a long time coming,” Pete said. “Years of planning have led to this. And we’re not the only ones. All across the Land of the New Gods, our brothers and sisters are rising up.”
The hollers and hoots came again, their voices rivaling the rolling thunder.
Pete motioned for Nick who walked over to a side door. He opened it and stepped back. Guttural barking sounded outside.
A man wearing what looked like a riot suit entered holding a chain and a club with barbwire wrapped around the shaft. The slack in the chain straightened out, rattling from whatever it was attached to.
The guard yanked on it and in came a muscular beast with a maw covered by a muzzle. It was another freak dog like the one Timothy had seen earlier. Only this one had a collar around its neck.
The creature growled, spine going rigid and hairs spiked like arrow quivers. Saliva dripped out of the muzzle onto the ground.
“It’s time to unleash our new weapons,” Pete said.
A second guard in riot gear followed the beast into the room. Muffled barks escaped from the muzzle until the man clicked on a remote, zapping the dog into submission. Several more genetically modified canines were brought in and loaded into cages in the backs of pickup trucks.
“Mount up,” Nick called out. “We move out soon.’
The men fanned out into vehicles while Nick walked over to Timothy.
“You, my pimple-faced friend, are going to help us get inside the command post,” he said.
The man who had hit Timothy with his gun barrel withdrew a black bag and pulled it over Timothy’s face. A hand grabbed him and pushed him into a truck. Motors growled to life.
Over the noise came the barking of the dogs in the back of the pickup trucks.
They sounded nothing like Ginger and Spark, even when the dogs were angry. These canines were starving, anxious to feast on flesh.
Timothy’s stomach curdled with the thought of just whose flesh they would be dining on tonight.
— 21 —
Beckham had done exactly what Fischer had expected any hard-headed Delta Force Operator would. He had marched to the forward command point to discuss security again with Colonel Presley. This time Master Sergeant Parker Horn accompanied him, too.
Fischer had joined the meeting, but kept his mouth shut. His men were holding security outside a tent functioning as their command point outside the area where Presley had his desk and war tables.
Beckham was determined to root out the issue immediately as soon as Fischer told him about Cornelius’s worries that collaborators had infiltrated Manchester.
“Captain, I understand your concern, but we do not have a collaborator problem,” Presley said. “The problem we’re facing right now isn’t some boogeymen hiding in our base. The problem is finding those packs of juveniles we spotted before. Their trail disappeared an hour ago, and we need to pick it back up. Not waste our time throwing around crazy allegations.”
Presley was trying his best to hide his frustration, and Fischer didn’t want to add fuel to the fire, but he had no choice.
“Colonel, I regret not bringing this up earlier,” Fischer said. “But it seems too much of a coincidence that the juvenile scouts showed up right when work began on the mastermind. Now I’m not a military man, but I’ve been around long enough to run into my fair share of company spies looking for the next oil or mineral rights to pull a land grab right under my nose.”
“This place isn’t an oilfield,” Presley snapped.
“No, it’s not, but I’m telling you that my experience and recent events sure get the gears in my head turning.” Fischer gestured toward Beckham. “When I mentioned this to Captain Beckham, he insisted we come back to you, because we both respect what you’ve done at this outpost.”
Presley clenched his jaw. He set the folder he was holding down on a table and motioned for Horn to shut the tent flaps.
“What I’m about to tell you doesn’t leave this tent,” Presley said.
“Understood,” Beckham said.
Fischer and Horn nodded in turn.
“A little over a year ago we discovered a group of terrorists planning to poison our water treatment plant,” he said. “They were collaborators, but we never found out much more than that.”
“Poison with what?” Beckham asked.
“Poison isn’t exactly the accurate word.” Presley hesitated, apparently considering his words carefully. “They were planning on infecting the water with VX-99.”
“What?” Beckham said.
Fischer was equally surprised to hear this. Horn’s brow creased, nostrils flaring like a bull ready to charge.
“Why wasn’t President Ringgold informed of this?” Beckham asked.
“I informed the proper people,” Presley said.
“The president is the proper person, sir,” Horn growled.
Fischer had to admit he agreed. “It seems to me the administration of this country has the right to know about terrorist activity involving VX-99.”
“Look, I’ve taken care of my people here.” Presley shook his head. “We don’t need any local problems blown out of proportion. If you think back two months ago, even before those attacks, local economies relied on trade between all the outposts. Who wants to trade with an outpost that has a collaborator problem?”
“The president had a right to know,” Beckham repeated.
“And I had a right to protect my people. Both from physical and economic harm.”
“How can you be sure you’ve actually protected them?”
“Since thos
e arrests and the following executions, we have not had any problems.” Presley shrugged. “Burning people alive in the town square has proved to be a good deterrent. I’m a big believer in making my actions count more than my words… Any potential collaborators knew from then on we meant business, and I made a promise that if we caught more, I would do worse to them than the Variants would.”
“You never found out who they were working with?” Horn asked.
“No, none of them would talk,” Presley replied. “We used every technique we could and got absolutely nothing from the bastards.”
Beckham and Horn exchanged a quick glance.
“If the juveniles know the mastermind is here, it’s not because anyone within our walls leaked that intel,” Presley said in an argumentative voice. “You might want to take your search for collaborators elsewhere.”
“I don’t buy it,” Beckham said. “I still have more questions.”
Presley let out a grunt. “Captain, your concern is noted, but we need to find those juveniles.”
“I agree, but they might not be the biggest threat. And I need to ask a few more questions. Sir.”
Presley looked exasperated but gave Beckham a nod.
“How many people have gone missing from Outpost Manchester in the past few years?” Beckham asked.
“I… I’m not sure, Captain… We don’t exactly keep a running census.”
Fischer found himself wondering the same thing Beckham probably was thinking. How could the colonel not know?
“You don’t have any idea? Not even a range?” Beckham asked.
“It’s a low number, I know that. Less than thirty. I would have to check with my staff for a better total.” Presley was agitated.
He walked around the table and called over one of his officers. Then he turned back to Beckham.
“You going to tell me why this information is important?” he asked.
“It’s important because collaborators use people by kidnapping their family members and forcing them into serving the Variants,” Beckham said. “Or other times, they simply brainwash them. Think Stockholm Syndrome on steroids.”
“Happened at our outpost,” Horn grumbled.
“I’d recommend putting together a list and checking with the family members of the people still living here,” Beckham said. “That’s one way to see if there’s anyone who might be connected.”
Extinction Cycle Dark Age (Book 2): Extinction Inferno Page 26