“We’ve got a commercial chopper up here,” the captain said, her voice strained. “I think they’re chasing that car. Hell, we almost collided with them.”
Three holes popped in their starboard side window along with the sounds of rifle fire.
“Did they just shoot at us?”
“Affirmative, Captain,” Moe said.
He stowed his rifle in a compartment on his left. Then he unbuckled himself, reached for a leather grip, and hauled himself from his seat. Trainor mirrored his movements, and they took turns attaching each other’s tethers to their harnesses as the aircraft swayed beneath them.
The helicopter banked left again, sending Moe’s feet flying out from under him if not for the springy tether.
“They just shot at the cockpit,” Melissa cried. “Trainor, get on that gun!”
“Already on it.”
The soldier staggered to the starboard door and flung it open, letting in a roar of wind. He squatted behind the machine gun, unlocked it, and swung it outward.
“Armed!” he called, looking for a target.
Moe scrambled to the port side in a halting approximation of the other soldier’s honed movements. As a Marine Staff Sergeant, Moe had some training with onboard weapons, but that had been a long time ago. Still, he had to try.
He clambered to the port door, unlatched it, and threw it open. His eyes flew wide as the open air yawned below him. It was a three-hundred-foot drop to the hard ground.
He fell to his knees behind the .50 caliber gun and fumbled with the locking mechanism. The helicopter swayed again, but Moe kept himself firmly planted, head down, leaning forward as the restraint system worked to keep him upright. He finally released the gun and swung the barrel outward, looking for a target.
The smaller, more mobile chopper peeled across his vision. Moe caught sight of two men with machine guns standing in the crew compartment, firing at him.
He ducked as a round hit his metal guard. Then he straightened and pressed the triggers, sending a wild volley of bullets toward the moving aircraft.
“Damn,” Moe growled as he tried to keep his balance and aim the gun at the same time.
The captain banked them back to the left so Trainor could take another crack at them. The soldier ripped off several long bursts before he finally gave a victorious shout.
“Hit ‘em!” he called. “Not dead though.”
The helicopters danced, and Moe glanced back to see the smaller chopper slide out of Trainor’s view and come around their rear.
Moe was ready.
He held his barrel in advance of the oncoming aircraft and pressed his trigger, holding them down to unleash a long trail of tracers across the sky. The smaller craft came into sight and ran right into his line of deadly lead.
Bullets punctured the cockpit and trailed along the side. They ripped into the two gunmen and chewed up the fuselage.
“Got ‘em,” Moe said. “I think I hit the pilot, too.”
As if proving him right, the smaller aircraft peeled away and banked toward the ground, smoke trailing from its engine.
Trainor suddenly stood behind him, watching as the enemy went down. “Not the most efficient shooting,” he patted Moe’s shoulder, “but you got it done. Good job.”
Moe gave a brief nod and watched the descending aircraft careen into the woods and hit the ground, sending up a huge fireball.
“I can’t fault them for trying,” Melissa said, her voice returning to calm. “But you’d have to be at least partially crazy to take on a Venom with small arms fire like that. What were they thinking?”
“They must have had it hard for that car they were chasing,” Hicks replied.
“Speaking of which,” the captain said. “Where’d it get off to?”
The helicopter circled the area for a moment while Moe turned his gun and locked it in place. He stood, stomach still lurching at the height despite that they’d steadied themselves, and the restraint system kept him from falling.
He grabbed a hand grip and stared down as the chopper cruised along the road.
“There it is.” Hicks sucked her teeth. “Ouch. He flipped.”
The helicopter angled so Moe saw the road below them. The long streaks of tires through the gray-green grass marked the point where the black Cadillac left the road and careened into the center median. It had flipped, rolled at least twice, and came to rest on its roof. Vehicle parts lay strewn around. A tire had flown off and rolled a hundred yards farther, leaving a long streak in the tallish grass.
“He’s a goner,” Hicks said. “No one lives through something like that.”
“And we’re not a medevac unit,” the captain added.
“There’s no hospital anyway,” Hicks confirmed.
The helicopter began drifting slowly away from the crash site, edging higher into the sky.
“Wait, Captain,” Moe said. His eyes narrowed, watching as a dark-clad figure crawled through the overgrown grass away from the crash site. “There’s someone down there. They’re alive.”
They stopped their retreat but didn’t descend.
“We’re on limited time.” Melissa’s tone was terse and breathless with the evasive maneuvering she’d had to make.
“We should go check on them,” Moe replied. Whoever it was, they seemed determined, crawling arm-over-arm, kicking and struggling to move another yard. “They could need our assistance.”
“Not a good idea,” the captain countered. “What if they’re beyond helping? What if they’ve got a broken back, or skull fracture?”
“Then we’ll show them mercy.” Moe’s tone fell with a grim note. “We’ll do what needs to be done.” When Melissa didn’t reply, he continued. “Aren’t you the least bit curious who that helicopter was after? I mean, they attacked a fully armed military chopper. They were either stupid, or, as Hicks said, hard up for the driver.”
“All right.” The captain’s tone switched back to its professional tone. “I’ll set down on the road. You and Trainor check it out. You’ve got two minutes.”
“Roger that,” Moe replied.
The skids touched the highway thirty yards from where he thought he’d seen the crawling figure. At first, he couldn’t spot them, but he continually glanced at the smoking wreck as he walked, triangulating the injured person’s location.
A grunt and gasp sounded off to his right, and Moe turned his barrel in that direction. He motioned for Trainor to flank left before stalking forward. He came across a depression in the grass, a bloody trail pressed into the gray-green. A black glove lay discarded along with a shot-up ammunition vest.
Moe turned to his right and followed the indention until he saw a pair of boots kicking weakly. He caught a pale fist land in the grass, arm shaking as it dragged the figure another yard.
He stepped closer until he stood right on top of them. He was a man, much larger than Moe suspected from his aerial view. He must have been six-foot, three-inches tall and weighed close to two hundred pounds.
“Hey, buddy. You okay?”
The man gasped, grunted, and shoved himself over onto his back. Dark brown eyes glared up at Moe with a mixture of pain and fury, causing him to retreat a step. Judging by the youthful face, he couldn’t have been more than seventeen or eighteen years old. Just a kid. Blood streaked his handsome features and stained his red hair darker along his scalp.
As for his injuries, Moe didn’t know where to begin. He wore black military fatigues, and blood soaked his shirt and pants around his belt line. He had a nasty knock on his forehead which bled down his temple, and his left arm hung loose on the grass.
“Get back,” the kid growled, and he raised a pistol in his right hand. His aim was all over the place, hands shaking with exhaustion and borderline shock.
Trainor took two steps and dropped his boot on the weapon’s barrel, pinning it to the ground. The kid tried to lift it, but his entire body shivered once before he fell back with a pained groan.
Moe stud
ied him, gauging the Good Samaritan in himself versus the need to get back in the air to Little Rock. The kid wasn’t wearing an air filtration mask, so he was probably as good as dead anyway.
But weren’t they flying toward the cure?
“Let’s get him aboard,” Moe said.
“Are you sure?”
“He’s just a kid, Melissa. Looks like a tough bastard fighting to live. I say we give him that chance. And if he’s going to die, the least we can do is make him comfortable.
“Okay, Moe. I’ll let you make the call on this one.”
“Thanks.”
Moe stared down at the kid and shouldered his rifle. Then he leaned to pick him up, glancing at Trainor.
“Little help for the old man here?”
Chapter 17
Kim, Little Rock, Arkansas
The small caravan of vehicles slowed and turned right onto a service road. The massive Stryker with its scarred armor went first, trundling over the dirt track and pushing through a canopy of overhanging trees.
The sleek black RV followed it, rocking back and forth. The beat-up blue bus came next, its skin covered with patches and scars. The caravan wove between forested hills and angled toward a massive stretch of small mountains that flowed east to west.
Kim glanced out the window to her left, catching Pinnacle Mountain and its thousand-foot peak. Branches scraped across the bus’s roof, and the kids cheered and hooted as the bus rocked on its suspension, tossing them around like an amusement park ride.
They turned right onto a properly paved road, weaving up and away from Pinnacle Mountain to the lower hills to the east. Man’s incursion became evident in the blasted hillside where trees gave way to rough-hewn walls.
A hundred yards in, Kim noticed the first watch tower where a pair of guards gazed down on them. Twinges of nervous anticipation tickled her gut.
They reached the rounded courtyard in the bosom of the mountain’s outstretched arms. The two monolithic steel doors spread open to allow them to enter, and they drove through.
There was a moment of shadow where all Kim saw were the RV’s taillights. Then they slipped into a massive motor pool cut right into the hillside. Pale strips of light hung down from the ceiling to illuminate a parking lot full of employee vehicles and three large military Humvees, as Jessie had noted on her previous report.
Passages were cut into the west wall, but the main entrance was a wide, brightly lit set of double doors. A half dozen civilians in air filtration masks waited to greet them while just as many guards held around the perimeter.
Kim’s trained eye noted they were well-equipped and stood attentive but relaxed. Their carbines pointed toward the floor, eyes staring warily at the Stryker as it rolled ahead of them.
Bishop parked the armored vehicle near the exit, while Jessie and Kim pulled theirs to the right where the spaces were large enough to accept semi-trailer trucks.
Kim backed the bus in, so she had a good view of the lot. She parked the vehicle and shut it off. Then she stood and adjusted her earpiece, half turning to the children gathered in the back.
“Okay, kids,” she announced. “We went over this before. We’re going to wait for the signal and then step off the bus. You are to hold hands and walk quietly inside. We’ll disinfect, get on an elevator, and go straight down to your new home.”
Karen Reese stood with her hands on her hips, watching Kim attentively. Riley and Trevor flanked the little girl. The three would serve as her enforcers, keeping the kids in line as they made the transition to their quarters below.
Mary sat in the passenger seat, eyes teary and afraid.
“It’s going to be okay, baby,” Kim said, reaching out to put her palm on the girl’s cheek. “Down in the new place, you’ll have your own beds, and you can watch TV and play games. And remember, they have a gym, too. You’ll be able to kick a ball around and shoot basketball without masks.”
A few kids cheered and pumped their fists in the air.
Mary nodded, but didn’t seem convinced.
“And you can walk with Savannah,” she added, drawing a pinch of a smile from the girl.
“Coming out,” Bishop announced, and Kim turned her attention back to the underground lot.
The Stryker’s rear door descended and clanked against the concrete. Bishop and Bryant ducked and stepped out of the armored vehicle. The two stood imposing with their carbines, full ammunition belts, and shirts tucked in. They’d not been able to find fatigues to fit Bishop, but he wore a pair of Bryant’s camos and boots, topping off the look with at fresh black T-shirt and sunglasses.
Bryant scanned the surrounding soldiers as the Stryker door shut. “I can tell by their uniforms, these aren’t American troops.”
“He probably imported the lot of them,” Bishop nodded. His head turned as he studied the foreign troops from behind his dark lenses.
“Going to play friendly now,” Bryant said. He lowered his rifle and slung it on his shoulder, nodding toward the black RV. “We’re ready for you, Jessie.”
“Here we come.”
The door to Burke’s bus slid open, and Jessie walked down at a quickened pace. She wore jeans, a fresh white T-shirt, a new sling, and a pair of tennis shoes they’d found at an outlet store on the way to the city.
She carried her pistol clipped to her left hip. She’d pulled her long, braided hair into a thick ponytail, and it slapped against her back as she met Bryant and Bishop thirty yards away from the Redpine folks.
Jessie scanned the people at the entrance and the soldiers surrounding them. She nodded toward her bus. “Okay, Dex. You’re up.”
A minute later, Dex, Weissman, and Garcia, marched from their vehicles with Burke between them. They wore freshly laundered fatigues and polished rifles. One would never guess they were recovering from a deadly illness.
They’d combed Burke’s hair back in a rough attempt to make him look presentable. He wore an old pair of jeans and a stained T-shirt, but his feet were bare, ankles shackled. Heavy chains weighted his arms and legs, and they’d pressed a fresh piece of tape tightly over his lips behind his air filtration visor.
Seeing any other person bound that way would have broken Kim’s heart, but all she felt for him was hatred and contempt.
She’d refrained from visiting Burke their entire trip. Jessie had confided in her the feelings she’d had hitting him with the broom handle and how her own rage had played a small role in setting him free. She didn’t want Kim to make the same mistake.
After some argument, she’d reluctantly agreed. And it all made sense down here underground with their fates hanging by a thread. They needed cool heads, not revenge-seekers who might jeopardize their chances.
“Cool cucumber,” she murmured. “That’s what I am.”
Her eyes drifted toward the people gathered at the entrance. Three wore lab coats, while the other three were dressed like regular civilians. She recognized the tall Chief Scientist, Anthony Brewer and his wife, Bonnie. They were mirror images of themselves. The consummate professionals, standing shoulder to shoulder. His sandy blonde hair was cut close and parted on the side. Her sharp-trimmed red locks framed her face. They both wore fashionable wire spectacles and badges on their lab coats.
When they spotted Burke, their expressions morphed into confusion, concern, and fear in the space of three seconds.
The soldiers marched their prisoner over to Bryant, Bishop, and Jessie. In planned unison, they circled Burke and walked toward the entrance with Garcia’s pistol pressed against Burke’s back.
The procession stopped ten yards from the doors and stared across the space without saying a word. It left a deafening silence.
“Hello.” Anthony Brewer spoke in a halting voice. “Which one of you is Jessie?”
“That’s me, Dr. Brewer.” Jessie nodded and stepped forward, appearing confident. She quickly rattled off the rest of the Redpine folks assembled, head turning as she ticked down the list. “Bonnie Brewer, Anthony’s w
ife.” She stared at a portly bald man in a lab coat. “You’re Dr. Max Hargrave, Chief Chemist. And you people,” Jessie looked over the scientists’ shoulders, “Are Nancy Inman, Mike Smith, and Sally Green. You’re in charge of the facilities. Good to meet all of you.”
The Redpine people glanced around at each other, seeming surprised and worried that Jessie knew them by name.
“And you’re Captain Jens Mueller,” Bryant said, striding toward a soldier standing off to the side.
Mueller was a nondescript older man in his fifties. He wore a uniform with no discernible markings to indicate he was head of the security forces. The man glanced at the Brewers before stepping forward to greet Bryant with his hands behind his back, posture stiff and annoyed.
“And who are you?” His voice had a high, condescending pitch, marked by a definitive European accent.
“I’m Lieutenant Colonel Scott Bryant, US Army out of Washington.” He held out his hand. “I’m under the command of General Ephram Miller.”
Mueller stared at the soldier’s hand for a moment before his eyes shifted to the chief scientists. “You didn’t tell me there would be United States Military involvement.”
“We didn’t know,” Anthony stammered, his shock compounding as new information unfolded.
“It’s working,” Kim whispered.
Bryant pulled his hand back, and Jessie took over again.
“As I mentioned in my communication,” she started, “we plan on sheltering here while we continue work on the Asphyxia serum and vaccine. We’ll be taking one full section of apartments. Burke will remain with us until we’ve created a sufficient supply of solution and can deliver it to the authorities.”
“Why is he chained like that?” Dr. Bonnie’s Brewer’s voice rose with skeptical intelligence as she gestured at their prisoner. “You say you’re working on a cure. Well, we’d all be interested in that. I’m sure Burke--”
“Excuse me, ma’am,” Bryant said, leaning in and speaking clearly for all those assembled. “Burke Birkenhoff is under arrest for crimes against humanity. He created the pandemic. That’s why he’s bound.”
Spore Series | Book 5 | Torch Page 14