Them, and the hum of the generator in the background. That presence, besides his burning desire to get the hell back to Emily as soon as possible was a constant companion since he came down that damn elevator.
“Cole!” Sal shouted.
Cole’s eyes snapped left, then right—but didn’t see anything in front of him. They were halfway to the end of the corridor, with only one door in the way, and it was up ahead—
“Behind you!” the Voice shouted.
Cole spun in a wide circle, going around Sal at the same time, and settling behind her—or in front of her now that she had also turned—and facing the other side of the brightly lit passageway.
A large man wearing nothing but his boxers was rushing toward them, a long metal pipe, the silver speckled with dry blood, cocked back in one hand. His face was round and so was his generous belly, which poked out obscenely from his naked front as he lumbered forward with all the grace of a woolly mammoth.
Cole was momentarily shocked he hadn’t heard the man coming. It’d taken Sal calling out for him to even know someone had snuck up behind them. How the hell had someone this big done that exactly?
Then Cole saw the man’s feet. He wasn’t just naked except for his boxers; he was also barefoot. That probably helped him stay stealthy, keeping him “hidden” against the tap-tap of Cole’s own footsteps and Sal’s crutch, not to mention the hum of the generators.
Cole fired, then quickly racked the shotgun. The empty shell flicked through the air and ricocheted off a wall. It ended up landing on the floor about the same time as the big man’s right arm.
Shit, Cole thought. He’d been aiming for the chest, but the crazy had bobbed at the last second, and Cole got more of his right shoulder and arm instead.
The detached arm, along with the pipe in it, plopped to the hallway floor.
The now-one-armed man kept coming, blubbery legs pistoning as fast as they could while his face twisted and contorted into something that almost looked like a sneer. Blood gushed out of the stump that used to be his right arm, splashing the floor and wall.
“Oh, gross.” Sal groaned somewhere behind him.
It was pretty gross, yeah, but Cole had seen worse. Much worse.
He fired again when the big man was within five yards, and this time didn’t miss his intended target.
Dark red paint erupted on the crazy’s chest just before he stopped moving and collapsed sideways to the floor. Blood slurped out of his stump and torso, creating a ridiculously large pattern of free-flowing red waves underneath. Then, quickly, it began flowing around his wide form.
Cole took a quick step backward to avoid the blood. He racked the shotgun, then quickly grabbed the last two shells from the pouch behind him and shoved them home.
Four.
He had four shells left. That, combined with the nine rounds in the Glock, gave him just thirteen rounds in all.
“Jesus Christ,” Sal was saying as Cole turned around to face her. She was staring at the dead man with the kind of shocked expression that belied the fact she’d been seeing something like this in the hallways around LARS for the last five days.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“I thought I’d be used to this by now.” She shook her head. “I guess there’s a big difference between seeing it on the screens and in real life. I mean, I saw Pete get his head hammered in, but I’m not sure I remembered how I felt then. This…”
“Don’t think about it,” Cole said as he stepped around her to take point again.
“Easy for you to say.” Then, watching him pass her, “How do you do it?”
“Do what?”
“What you just did.”
“What did I just do? Defend myself?”
“No. Kill someone. I mean, yes, defend yourself, by killing someone.”
“It’s easy. You just pull the trigger,” the Voice said.
Cole said, “You do it because the alternative is to let them kill you. Given that choice, it’s not a big decision.”
“I guess not,” Sal said. “I don’t think I can do it. I mean, take a life.”
“You can, if you don’t have any choice.”
“It’s that simple?”
“Yes.”
“So you’ve done this before?”
“Why are you asking me this?”
“I’m just making conversation.”
“This isn’t the time. Now come on.”
“I’ll take that as a yes. Then again, after seeing how you handled yourself when you first got down here, I don’t know why I’m surprised.”
“Says the woman who blackmailed you like a real pro,” the Voice said.
Cole had to keep that in mind. Sal was a lot of things, but she wasn’t above taking advantage of every opportunity presented to her in order to stay alive.
“No offense,” Sal said.
The Voice laughed, but Cole said, “None taken.” Then, “Let’s go.”
Sal followed behind him, the soft tap-tap of her crutch keeping pace with his own footsteps.
“Two down, five to go,” the Voice said. “At least, five that you know of.”
Five, that I know of…
“This is going to be fun.”
I wouldn’t exactly put it that way.
“Oh, come on. You know this is what you do best. Don’t kid yourself.”
Cole didn’t answer. He focused on the turn up ahead instead.
“The silent treatment again?” the Voice said. “That is so immature.”
As he approached the corner, Cole did what he’d done for the last three turns—he made a wide arc so he could see if anything was hiding on the other side of the bend before they could see him. Sal, like before, hung back far enough that she didn’t get in his way if he needed to engage someone, but still close enough that he could protect her if a crazy did what Boxers had done earlier and snuck up on them from behind.
There was no one in the corridor. At least, no one alive. The two bodies he’d seen when he first traversed the same area were still there, along with fresh tracks of blood. Those were likely made by Fred the Chef when he retreated after Cole almost took him out. Cole had spotted blood drops leading from the turn into the generator hallway, but there were more here for some reason.
“Watch out for Fred,” Sal said when Cole relaxed slightly.
He nodded. He liked that she was being more than just a helpless passenger on his quest back to the elevator. She was more alert than he’d expected, and if she hadn’t heard Boxers coming…
“You might be dead right now,” the Voice said.
I would have heard him coming eventually.
“You think so?”
I’m not deaf.
“But you didn’t hear him until she called your name.”
It was only a matter of time.
The Voice chortled. “You trying to convince yourself or me? Never mind. Since I am you, it’s a moot point.”
Cole grunted.
“You say something?” Sal asked.
He shook his head. “No.”
“I thought you said something.”
“I didn’t.”
“You sure? I thought—”
“I didn’t. Now come on.”
“Yes, sir,” she said in an obviously mocking tone.
“Should have shot her in the face when you had the chance,” the Voice said.
Cole sighed. He was starting to agree with the Voice more and more.
Sal followed behind him as he went down the corridor, passing the two dead bodies and fresh blood tracks that Fred the Chef had left in his wake.
Two more corridors, and they would reach the elevator.
Two more corridors, with five more crazies still out there.
Five more that he still knew about, anyway.
Chapter 18. Emily
FUBAR.
That was what this was.
FUBAR.
Fucked Up Beyond All Reason.
Stoner, th
e ex-soldier, knew exactly what FUBAR was without her having to explain it to him, except he was too busy trying not to die right now to give a damn.
For that matter, they all were.
Including her.
She did her best to block out the gunfire and screams while she concentrated her fire on the crazy standing over Stoner, lifting the sledgehammer above his head to deliver a second—and likely, final—blow to the older man.
A shock of white hair, sweat dripping down his face. The crazy had wild eyes that bulged as blood dripped from them and onto Stoner’s prone form. The soldier was done for. Or he would be, unless Emily did something to save him. He had taken the full brunt of his attacker’s hammer in the chest and was probably suffering from internal bleeding right now. That is, if his entire chest cavity hadn’t already caved in on him and was suffocating him. Or worse.
Was there really something worse than that?
Five days ago, Emily might have said no, but these days she didn’t know.
She squeezed off a burst from ten yards away, and the crazy’s already blood and dust-splattered lime-green overalls turned wet. She landed two shots—both punching holes into the man’s chest—while the third round flew past his right shoulder and vanished out of the wide-open side door behind him.
The man stumbled, as if shocked by what had happened. He glanced down at the blood dripping from his chest before falling to his knees. The heavy sledgehammer—its metallic frame equally drenched in red—clanged loudly to the hard and unyielding concrete floor next to him.
Emily walked up and fired a fourth shot, striking the man in the forehead.
The crazy seemed to lean backward, but instead of going down, he remained in an awkward kneeling posture, his head lolled back behind him while his neck faced the warehouse ceiling. That pose was probably painful, if the man wasn’t already dead.
And dead men didn’t feel.
She ran toward Stoner even as the gunfire and screams and squeaks of the others moving around the building around her continued to explode in her ears. She concentrated on the ex-soldier as he struggled to get back up, failing badly.
Stoner had laid back down when she reached him, sliding down to one knee to help him while looking up and over at the others for the first time since everything went, as Cole would say, tits up.
In the next five or so seconds, Emily ran through her options based on what she saw.
Step one: Know your objective.
It was the same as it’d always been since all of this began: Keep everyone alive.
Step two: Gather intel.
It was FUBAR. Royally FUBAR. The crazies were coming into the warehouse in waves, and the only reason they hadn’t overwhelmed Bolton, Greg, and the others yet was because they were just as intent on killing one another as they were her people and Stoner’s. It was almost as if they’d been waiting out there all this time before finally launching their attack. If she didn’t know better, she’d think every single one of them was in on the same tactical plan.
But of course, she did know better, and this wasn’t any kind of coordinated effort. They had simply bided their time, waiting for the perfect opportunity to assault the warehouse—and each other.
Like moths to the flame…
Bolton, Greg, and Tommy were rushing back to the offices in the back where the women had already fled. Minor was joining them, backpedaling as he picked off crazies launching kamikaze attacks on his position from multiple sides. The ex-soldier smartly didn’t shoot at the infected that were too busy murdering one another. He was conserving ammo.
As for Pecks and Lewis, Emily couldn’t locate them among the throng of thrashing figures and spilling blood. Crazies were coming through the two wide openings that flanked the embedded semi as if the sunlight outside were vomiting them into The Welcome Room, one after another.
Where the hell had they all been hiding up till now? Were they always out there, chasing each other around? That had to be it, because she could remember Hawkeye and Green Arrow taking shots at them.
Hawkeye and Green Arrow.
They were probably dead. How, she had no idea. Maybe a crazy had snuck up onto the roof behind them. That was possible. Stoner had told them the two men had used an escape ladder just outside the side door to access the top of the warehouse. Not that their current state had any impact on her. They weren’t going to be much help to her and the others down here even if they were alive.
Step three: Formulate a plan.
She needed help. Stoner was out of it. If he wasn’t dead, then he was pretty damn close.
“Get up, Stoner!” she shouted at him. “Get up!”
He blinked at her, like someone trying to swim through a deep sleep and failing miserably.
And Cole wasn’t here. He was still stuck ten floors down. Maybe dead, like Stoner had said, but she didn’t believe it. Cole had made it back to her when all the odds were stacked against him, and he wasn’t about to let ten measly stories stop him now. Not her Cole.
Not her Cole.
So how did she get everyone to safety?
And finally, step four: Execute that plan.
She didn’t have a clue. She knew what she had to do, just not how.
And that was the problem.
One of many.
One of so, so many.
“Emily!” someone shouted.
Dante, outside the bigger of the two offices. Zoe was holding the door open behind him, either waiting for him to go in or having let him out. Dante was staring at her—and pointing.
Pointing? Why was he pointing?
Behind her!
Emily whirled around, the M4 rifle turning with her. It wasn’t exactly an easy thing to do, given that she was on one knee and had to spin completely around. But she did it anyway even as her right oblique screamed in pain as she contorted it without warning.
A crazy, running at her from the open side door.
She was falling on her ass as she fired. It wasn’t so much the recoil, because there wasn’t really much of one—at least, none that surprised her—but more that she was incredibly unsteady on her bent legs. She’d fired, pulling the trigger as fast as she could, even as she fell clumsily, the thoughts Oh Jesus, girl, what is this, your first time firing a rifle?
Her first couple of bullets missed the charging man—young, maybe early twenties, wearing a torn white T-shirt covered in grease stains and blood, his hair sticking out in one of those ridiculous “man buns” above his head—by a good foot. The rounds sailed past his head and pinged! off the metal wall behind him just above the open door.
The rest of her shots, while she was halfway down to the floor, were better. They struck the young man in the right shoulder and he twisted slightly.
But he didn’t stop.
Not that she expected him to. The infection that spiked his surge of adrenaline gave crazies the speed, strength, and durability of meth heads. This one, who was probably someone’s son or husband or brother, was going to keep coming until he reached her and drove that tomahawk in his hand right into her skull. Like every other weapon she’d seen wielded by a crazy, the black matted object was covered in the blood of previous victims.
And she was next.
Or she would have been, if she didn’t continue pulling the trigger even as she landed on her butt as he was almost on top of her.
Pop-pop-pop!
The young crazy careened forward, his momentum driving him even as another round splattered his right eyebrow and exited the back of his skull. The bullet kept on going, pinging! off the wall behind him.
The body slammed into her, the top of his head coming a fraction of an inch from colliding with her chin. Fortunately, she jerked her body slightly to one side at the very last second, and it only grazed her chest. The crazy rolled over, then smacked into the floor next to her with a sickeningly wet-sounding thwump.
She was picking herself back up, feeling like an idiot for having fallen on her ass, when footsteps e
xploded behind her. She scrambled, turned, and was ready to shoot when Greg and Tommy appeared, both men out of breath.
“Emily!” Greg shouted.
“Stoner!” she shouted back. “Get Stoner!”
Greg nodded and grabbed the by-now-clearly unconscious Stoner and attempted to pick him up. Except Greg still only had one good arm, and it was his left one at that. Thankfully, Tommy wasn’t a complete idiot and quickly grabbed part of Stoner, and the two men managed to lift the ex-soldier up from the floor. By his sagging appearance, Emily didn’t have very much hope Stoner was even still breathing.
And frankly, she didn’t have the time to check his vitals. She was already on her feet, looking toward the open side door. It was as wide open now as before, but nothing and no one was coming through.
Not at the moment, at least.
She thought about running to it and putting the barricades back in place, but that would have taken too much time. And she wouldn’t have been able to do it all by herself, not with Greg and Tommy occupied with Stoner.
Instead, she looked back toward the front entrance, at the slew of bodies on the ground and even more still on their feet. Crazies were stabbing each other with bladed weapons and whaling away at more victims with blunt objects. It was a battle royal, if she’d ever seen one, but thank God they all seemed to be concentrated near the front and center of the warehouse.
But how long before they got through that carnage of flesh and blood and knives and made their way to the back toward her and the others?
She wasn’t going to wait to find out.
Emily turned to Greg and Tommy as they heaved the unconscious Stoner up and over Greg’s broad shoulder.
“Go!” she shouted. “Get back to the office!”
“What about you?” Greg asked.
“I’ll cover you.”
“What?”
“I’ll cover you. Now go!”
He nodded and turned to go, Tommy carrying Greg’s rifle, that he’d gotten from Stoner’s people, behind him.
“Help me,” Greg was saying to Tommy.
The teenager gave him a confused look.
“Don’t let him fall,” Greg said.
Tommy put one hand on Stoner’s limp body as they began half-running and half-walking back to the offices.
Fall of Man | Book 3 | Firebase: Page 15