Chancing it, Randy crept along the wall until he started to see his feet. A moment later, he spotted an opening to the woods thirty yards away. A maintenance truck sat parked at the edge of the lot, and he kept low as he broke from the wall’s safety toward it.
Flashlights whipped through the fog, cutting brightly through the night and shining into the building.
He reached the vehicle and put his back against it, catching his breath as he waited for the sounds of running feet or gunfire in his direction. When none came, he crept to the rear of the truck and plunged into the woods.
The brush was heavy. Sticker branches gripped his clothing. Switches whipped him. He kept his lips clamped shut, moving as quietly and quickly as he could.
To his own ringing ears, he sounded like a Fourth of July Parade marching down Main Street. No way they couldn’t hear him pushing through the thick brush.
They didn’t have woods like that in Indiana.
He reached a break in the denseness and leapt forward, hoping to outdistance his pursuers. He took two excited steps when his boot smacked against a root. Randy stumbled blindly and threw his left arm out, so he wouldn’t brain himself on a tree.
Once he regained his feet, he took a moment to catch his breath. The shadows crowded him, a wall of impenetrable nothingness pressing in. He could make out a slight rise ahead, blobs of black that could have been fallen logs or tangles of brush.
He sighed with frustration. They’d spot him if he used his flashlight, but he’d be lost in the woods forever if he continued staggering around.
Fresh shouts broke out, and he guessed they found he’d fled the armory.
Flashlight beams turned in his direction, some of them whipping through the woods, causing him to duck. When the clouds broke, offering him a sliver of moonlight, he caught the lay of the rise ahead and dashed to it.
The climb was brutal. Randy raised each leg high and stepped to the next furrow or fallen branch. Sometimes what he thought was a strong anchor only slipped out from beneath him, driving him to his knees.
He scrambled, slid, and crawled, one-armed, above the beams of light to reach the hill’s crest. He stood with less than five yards to go and drove his knees through a tangle of stickers.
With a triumphant grunt, he put his left hand against a tree trunk and used it as leverage to guide himself over the top and descend the other side.
A beam of light burst from the darkness in front of him, partially blinding him. Randy ducked and threw his shoulder forward, hitting the soldier’s soft stomach. He knocked the other soldier down and fell face-first into the scratchy underbrush with his arms thrown over his head.
Only a tight grip allowed him to hold on to his weapon.
A flashlight tumbled into the bush, its light splitting between Randy and the soldier struggling to stand ten yards down the hill. The man raised his weapon, but Randy squeezed his carbine’s trigger and sent a burst of rounds into the man’s legs. The soldier screamed and fired. Bullets zipped over his head, ruffling his hair, pounding the dirt next to him. Rounds struck his ammunition vest as the man fell with one final burst.
Dazed with pain, Randy scrambled to his feet and stumbled past the moaning soldier.
His teeth ground together, eyes pinned forward with stark determination. At the bottom of the rise, he fumbled with his flashlight and flipped it on. Ahead was a stand of white pine and cedar trees, open and free of dense brush.
He snapped off his light and put it away. Then he scurried on, shoving aside branches and saplings as his back muscles spasmed. Sudden shouts of pursuit followed him down the hill. He groaned and lunged ahead, breaking into a jog.
Chin tucked to his chest, he crashed through the woods. Swaths of moonlight illuminated his way. His back sang with pain. It stung and ached, and his right leg wasn’t lifting off the ground high. A warm wetness slicked his lower back and ran down his legs.
The voices grew closer. Flashlight beams cut across him multiple times. Finally, one caught him fully in its glare, and Randy twisted and ducked behind a thick oak tree.
“I think I saw him. There! In that cluster of trees.”
He placed his left forearm against the trunk and took several deep breaths. Then he peeked around the gnarled oak, spotting three figures with flashlights approaching forty yards off. Someone fired, and Randy jerked back as a piece of bark flew off.
He pocketed his flashlight and removed one of two M26 fragment grenades from his vest. He’d snatched them from the case before leaving the armory.
He’d never practiced with a grenade, but he’d thought about joining the military out of high school. It had been a brief phase, but for a month he’d done nothing but immerse himself in military training videos.
He knew enough not to hurl the grenade but toss it in a smooth motion. If he made a mistake, it could cost him an arm, or worse. He carefully snatched the pin out, half-cocked his arm, and launched it toward the soldiers.
“Grenade!” One of them called as they crashed for cover.
He closed his eyes as the explosion spat fragments into his tree trunk and rained debris everywhere. A silence fell over the forest as everything settled. Nothing moved. The dropped flashlights illuminated the woods in a ghostly yellow light.
Randy opened his eyes and pushed himself away from the oak, stumbling off into the underbrush, ignoring the wounded soldiers’ groans.
Chapter 12
Moe, Amarillo, Texas
The sound of the Venom’s spinning rotors and smooth whine had become white noise to Moe. But even as it soothed him to sleep, a slight tilt of the fuselage would cause his head to loll and wake him up.
He’d strapped himself into a passenger seat, back against the cockpit, trying for a snatch of sleep during the two-hundred-mile flight to their next location.
They flew low at cruising speed to conserve fuel. They hit pockets of turbulence, navigating around small towns to avoid people with guns.
Others may not be as friendly as Zack and his kind.
Moe glanced out the window at the passing night sky, unable to see anything but his own reflection. Buttons and soft courtesy lights illuminated the crew quarters, and he looked down to see tall Trainor stretched out on the floor, nestled against the rear of the compartment.
Hicks had joined Melissa in the cockpit, serving as her co-pilot. While the captain could fly the helicopter herself, the navigator played a tremendous role in ensuring they stayed on course.
“You up back there?” Melissa asked.
“I’m up,” Moe said. He saw Trainor stir and added, “Trainor, too.”
“Ten minutes until we land.”
“Where are we now?”
“Just outside Amarillo. I’ll skirt north around the city to the airport.”
Moe rubbed his eyes. “Anyone on the radio?”
“Nothing official or military. There are signs of citizens playing soldier, and I’d like to avoid meeting them if possible.”
“Sounds good to me,” Moe replied.
“I want us to start wearing masks from here on out. I mean, all the time. On the chopper or ground. The air out here is more likely to have spores. I’m not sure how many, or how lethal, but it’s best we take precautions.”
“I agree, Captain.”
“Good.”
Moe unbuckled himself and dug out his duffel. He retrieved his air filtration mask and slipped it on, making sure it fit snugly on his face. Already, it felt stuffy, and he couldn’t imagine what it must be like for the survivors living so far east.
The helicopter tilted, throwing him off balance a moment before settling straight again. Ten minutes later, they were circling an airfield as Hicks and Melissa scanned the surroundings.
“Is it another airport?” Moe asked, moving to the edge of his seat and holding his rifle across his lap.
“Affirmative,” the captain replied. “It’s not a military facility. If anyone’s here, it will be civilians.”
“I d
on’t see anything on the thermal scan,” Hicks noted. “This place is deserted. Not a single light anywhere. No one moving.”
“I’m setting down by a maintenance hangar,” Melissa said.
The front of the helicopter raised, and Moe waited for that familiar bump of a landing and the reduced engine noise before he stood. Trainor threw open the side door and jumped out.
Moe climbed out carefully, putting both feet down and crouch-walking out of the rotor’s range. Once clear, he straightened his stiff back. Trainor marched around the aircraft before taking up a position on the opposite side. They didn’t want to make the same mistake as last time. They needed eyes in all directions.
Moe scanned the area, but it was dark everywhere. The moon was half full, casting its paltry beams between taffy-thin clouds. It gave him enough light to make out the airport terminal and surrounding buildings.
Amarillo itself was dead black. He’d delivered truckloads to the city on multiple occasions over the years. He knew of some great watering holes and restaurants. Images of friends came back to him, and he wondered what had happened to them. He remembered a bartender at Stella’s he’d briefly had a crush on, but he couldn’t think of her name. There were a group of truckers who played cards together at the Loman’s Truck Stop. Moe had sat in with them once and had a great time.
Those were the people who’d kept him long-range trucking, but were any of them alive?
The captain spoke through his helmet speakers. “I’ve got the hose, and I’m dragging it out to the chopper. Hicks, I can’t get the pump motor on. I’ll need you to do it manually.”
“On it,” Hicks replied.
He stared out at the quiet night while they refueled, thinking of those old friends he’d never see again.
After thirty minutes, they loaded up and lifted off without incident.
*
An hour and a half later, while Moe’s eyes lulled shut from weariness, Captain Bryant made an announcement.
“I want to try this place just outside Elk City. It’s a private facility we used on long training missions. I’m not sure if they have a crew anymore.”
“Good enough for me,” Moe grumbled, feeling smothered by his mask.
He stood and turned to the cockpit. He peered between the two women as they angled down toward a pale patch of ground he took as a landing pad.
Melissa flipped on the chopper’s spotlight and shined it around the facility. It boasted a single runway and an air pad for helicopters. Two small buildings and a hangar faced the air pad, and a solitary road led away across the sparse farmland and fields.
“You weren’t kidding,” Moe stated, flatly. “This place is small, and it looks abandoned, too. Is it worth landing?”
“It could be. I’m setting down.”
The chopper’s skids touched the air pad with a light bump. Trainor and Moe stepped from the crew cabin and spread out while Melissa and Hicks sprinted to the hangar to search for a fuel hose. A minute later, the women dragged a hose from the hanger out to the helicopter, fixing it to the input.
Moe kept his eyes on the buildings and was surprised when a light blinked on in one.
“Over here folks,” he said, lowering his rifle. “Somebody’s home.”
Moe approached the structure, peering through the big glass front. A shadowy form moved around inside, obscured by a pair of dingy white curtains. Moe stopped twenty yards away. Trainor crept up on his left, while Melissa and Hicks settled on his right.
“Hit them with our lights as soon as that door opens,” the captain said.
Moe nodded and reached up to his rifle light.
The person inside shuffled, bumped around, and grasped at the door knob. It turned, and the door flew open.
All four flipped on their rifle lights to reveal a forty-something man in overalls and a greasy white T-shirt. His hair was a bush of soft curls, and it looked like he hadn’t shaved in weeks.
He threw up his hands and turned his head away from the brightness. “Whoa, hey! Don’t shoot! I’m unarmed! I’m just the mechanic here. You got a problem with that, call my manager. But I don’t think he’s alive anymore.”
Melissa flipped off her light and stepped toward him. “Shocky, you lucky old bastard. I was afraid I’d find you here.”
The man dropped his hands at the sound of her voice. He leaned forward and squinted, face brightening when he saw it was her. “Me, lucky? I’d say you’re the lucky one, Captain Melissa Bryant! Weren’t you stationed out in Cali?”
“I was there when the spores hit,” she nodded, lowering her weapon. “Got out just in time.”
“Well, good for you.” The man looked around. “Who are all your friends here? They look serious.”
Melissa scoffed and made quick introductions. Then she came forward and held out her hand. Shocky slapped it and gave it a solid shake.
“I’m glad to see you,” he said. “I’ve been here since it all went down, and I haven’t seen another soul.”
“Where’d the crew go?”
The man pulled a rag out of his pocket and threw it over his shoulder. “They went home to be with their families but never came back. I haven’t even been to town yet.”
“What are you living on?” Moe asked, turning his rifle light to the side.
Shocky shifted his dark eyes to Moe. “I don’t have any family in these parts, so this maintenance station is my home. I’ve got a basement full of stores. Enough food and water to last me a year, I reckon. Eventually, I’ll run out, but I hope to have my own garden up and growing by then. Be better than leaving and putting myself in danger.”
“That’s a good plan,” Melissa said in agreement. “But you really need an alarm system. We waltzed right up to your front door.”
He waved her off. “I figured the only people coming here would be pilots. The townsfolk don’t bother with this place.”
“I’ll give you that.”
The man peered over Melissa’s shoulder at the chopper, and his eyes glinted curiously. “Power her down, and I’ll run a routine maintenance. I even have spare parts if you need them.”
“We’re in a bit of a hurry, Shocky.”
“I just need six hours. I’ll have you back in the air by mid-morning.” He glanced at the chopper and took a deep breath. “I haven’t worked on a Venom in six months. I’ve been dying to touch one.”
Melissa grinned. “Have at it. Just a routine check is all we need. I don’t want to step outside to find my aircraft taken apart and strewn across your air pad.”
“Good enough,” the mechanic grinned. He noted their masks. “You’re more than welcome to take rest in the bunkhouse. If you’re paranoid about the air, you can eat in the rear administrative offices. It’s closed off from the rest of the building. Shouldn’t have any spores.”
“Aren’t you afraid of them?”
He shrugged and looked around. “I was during the first wave, but I think the dry air out here did them in. I haven’t worn a mask in two weeks, and I’m doing okay.”
They all thanked the mechanic. Then Melissa and Hicks jogged to the helicopter and took it through its shutdown sequence.
Moe and Trainor shared a look before moving out to their guard positions. It was going to be a long morning.
*
Moe lay on a cot in the bunkhouse with his head propped up on a pillow and his boots kicked onto the floor. His back had been stiff all day and it felt amazing to lay flat and allow himself to relax.
The bunkhouse was located in the back of the office building behind a kitchenette and vending machines. A small generator provided lights to the appliances, and Shocky pumped in water from a nearby well and piped it through a filter system.
Moe had taken first watch with Melissa, listening to the mechanic fire up his shop generator and drag a cart of tools and an air hose out to the chopper. Moe watched distantly as the captain hovered near Shocky and engaged him in conversation. They laughed as he worked, referencing old crews that h
ad passed through the aero service station.
He would listen for a minute before taking another lap around the air pad, staring out at the surrounding farmlands or scanning the lonely road into town.
Two hours past dawn, Hicks and Trainor had relieved them, and Moe had walked wearily into the bunkhouse. He thought about leaving his mask on, but the mechanic wasn’t sick, and the soldiers had already removed theirs. He pulled it off and tossed it in with his gear. Then he’d tugged off his boots and collapsed.
That had been an hour ago.
A stall door squeaked open and slammed shut down the hall, and soft footsteps approached. Melissa stopped in the hall entrance wearing an old gray T-shirt and a pair of oversized cutoff sweat shorts. Her sable hair hung loose and wet around her shoulders, and her cheeks were rosy red from the hot water.
“You’ve got to take a shower.” She jerked her thumb back in the other direction and padded to the cot across from him in her bare feet. Sitting hard on the springy mattress, she leaned forward and placed her elbows on her knees like she wanted to tell him a secret. “It’s better than cheesecake.”
Moe laughed. “That good, huh?”
She chuckled. “It’s amazing. The last real shower I took was four weeks ago. Can you believe that?”
“I can. And I think this is the first time I’ve ever heard you laugh.”
“Really,” she pulled a doubtful face, her expressive eyebrows sinking. “I’m sure I’ve laughed in front of you before.”
Moe rolled his head back and forth on the pillow. “Nope.”
She thought about it, then sighed. “I guess you’re right. I’m just so focused on getting you to Arkansas.”
“And you’ll get to see Scott,” Moe raised his eyebrows.
A smile lit up her face, and she pulled her legs up and crossed them, looking more like a high schooler than a Marine Captain with serious battle skills. “I haven’t seen my husband in three months. We were deployed all over the place the last few years. It’s been crazy.”
“I believe it,” Moe smiled. “You haven’t spoken a lot about him.”
Spore Series | Book 5 | Torch Page 10