The Soldier (Book 2): Sanctuary

by Lundy, W. J.

  One of the young men looked at him, confused. Zeke stepped in. “Listen, Army, you go popping those flares, these things are going to go nuttier than a shit house rat. They’ll be all over your ass.”

  Gyles nodded. “That’s the idea. I’ll fire the things up and make a loop through that alley and draw them back into the city. If this works, it’ll clear out enough that they can stop with that truck and get you all out of here before the walls come down.”

  Andre laughed. “These walls won’t fall.”

  Gyles turned, angry this time but holding back his rage. “It’s broad daylight. As soon as the sun falls, there will be more of these things in the city than you ever knew existed. They’ll climb those walls and pour over the top like a flood of death. I’ve seen it happen. Now pull your head out of your ass and save your flock!”

  Stunned, Andre took a step back. Jacob put a hand on his shoulder, but the priest brushed it off. The man turned and walked swiftly back the church entrance. Gyles turned to Zeke. “Make sure you leave; don’t let that man get you or your family killed.”

  “He’ll come around; I know he will.” Zeke asked, “And what about you?”

  Gyles thought about it then heard the semi shifting through gears somewhere outside. “Don’t worry about me. This thing is built like a vault. Just get everyone out of here, okay?”

  Zeke nodded and extended his hand. Gyles returned the handshake and walked back to the driver’s door. He shouted last instructions to the pair and dropped inside, closing the door tight, engaging the combat locks. He made a quick round of inspections and checked every door and the hatch. He then started the vehicle and spun it around in a three-point turn so that the nose was facing the gate. He looked in the mirrors and watched as Zeke moved back into the garage, dragging the heavy rucksacks. He looked at the face of one of the men, who shot him a salute. Gyles grinned and returned the gesture. He reached for a radio microphone on the dash.

  “Sherman, you there?”

  “I hear ya.”

  “Get ready, I’m about to piss off the neighborhood.”

  “We’re ready. Good luck, and thank you.”

  Gyles looked out of his window and pointed at one of the men, then gave him a thumbs up. The man nodded, and he watched as the pair moved to the back of the Humvee and pulled down the long whip antennas and road flares. The antenna on the left popped to life and then the right. Gyles grabbed the wheel tightly in his gloved hands and eased the vehicle forward, his foot heavy on the accelerator. Then men moved into position by the gate and undid the lock. Immediately, the pressure of the infected outside forced it open.

  While the men struggled to control the pressure, Gyles pressed his foot to the floor. The Humvee rushed forward and blasted into the mob. At the same time, faces exploded as rounds pinged off the armor and into the crowd. The vehicle bogged down, the tires spun then found purchase and lunged ahead, crushing the bodies of the Primals under its wheels. He felt the Humvee surge with the torque of the engine then jump a curb. He smashed into a parked car, the small Honda being thrown up and into even more infected.

  Daring a glance back in his mirror, Gyles barely saw the doors being closed as the mob turned from the gate and focused on the bright cherry flames of the flares. He gunned the engine again and cranked the wheel hard to the left, turning toward the back alley. The vehicle’s momentum bogged down in the mass until the wheels shifted and he pressed through. He felt the curb and straightened the wheel, knowing he was on the road. Driving blind, he couldn’t see anything through the mob, as they were pressed tight against every window. He snatched the handset back.

  “Sherman, can you hear me?”

  “Got you, soldier. They are on you like flies on shit,” came Sherman’s familiar voice. “Even the ones from the front of the church are breaking off to follow you.”

  “All good, but I’m having trouble navigating. I need you to tell me when to make the turn into the alley.”

  “I can do that… keep going; it’s just ahead.”

  Gyles kept his foot hard on the accelerator, and the Humvee pushed ahead like it was buried in deep mud. He cringed every time it would bounce, find traction, and lunge forward. He knew it wasn’t mud and rocks being ground under his tires. He made the mistake of looking left and saw a young woman’s face pressed against the glass. Her eyes were blood red, every tooth broken. She screamed at him. He couldn’t hear her over the others, but he imagined what it would sound like. His hands began to shake violently. Soon his legs were shaking with the fear-flushed adrenaline flooding his system. He was trying to control his breathing, concentrating on every inhale and exhale, when the radio squawked. “Hard left now, soldier.”

  Gyles cranked the wheel and waited for the Humvee to respond. He pressed harder on the accelerator, the vehicle bouncing and grinding ahead.

  “Straighten it out. You’re right on course.”

  He did as he was told and felt the pressure lighten as he entered the alley. The Humvee picked up speed and soon he could see the street ahead. Up above, he spotted the men standing on the garage roof, pumping their fists as he sped by, bouncing infected off the brush guard as he ran them down.

  “It’s working, dammit, it’s working,” Sherman yelled. “They’re all following you. We have a break in the alley; we’re going to try and—”

  Gyles reached for the radio and tried to respond but caught static. He’d gotten out of the bubble; the jamming was back in effect. He looked at his hands, still intensely locked on the wheel. He was passing over the intersection where the pair of Primals had ambushed him earlier. He nearly crossed before cutting the wheel hard to the right, remembering that the road near the law office was blocked in tight.

  The street ahead was open but the city block on his left side was engulfed in flames. He suddenly realized he was losing the mob and took his foot off the pedal, letting the pursuing mass close back in on him. He watched his speed, letting the monsters run alongside him. Sometimes, one would jump on the roof and reach for a flare. Others would climb the hood then roll off and be crushed by the heavy tires. He saw another intersection. Both paths straight ahead and to the right were blocked. Left was open, but it would take him right into the burning city.

  He slowed and looked at a bearded man smashing his head against the bulletproof glass in his driver’s window. “Hey, you want to go to a barbeque?”

  The Primal’s head reared back, and it smashed its face against the glass, its nose exploding, leaving a bloody smear. Gyles shrugged and made the hard turn left into the burning streets. “I’ll take that as a yes,” he said as the man rolled off the hood in the turn.

  Buildings on the right and left were fully engulfed and for as far ahead as he could see. The wind was blowing in the direction of his travel, so he knew at least now the fire would spread away from the church. He slowed and looked in his mirrors and saw a sea of infected still following him, many of them with their clothing in flames after running frantically through the fire. Grinning, he again controlled his speed to stay just out of reach of the monsters chasing him. “Burn you, motherfuckers.”

  He looked up then slammed down hard on the brakes. The road ahead was blocked with another barricade, forcing him to press into reverse and speed backwards, losing his vision again when he collided with the mob. He hit a curb, losing control, and the Hummer skidded sideways then contacted a steel light pole that broke and fell over the Humvee, smashing against the hood. He shifted back to drive with the horde pressing against the vehicle.

  The tires spun helplessly as he gunned the engine. He was pinned and surrounded, unable to move. Smoke drifted in through the vents with the cool air of the air conditioner. He removed his gloves and touched the steel plating, feeling the heat radiate back at him.

  A man with a burnt face and singed hair screamed at him through the side window while others climbed onto the hood, beating at the bulletproof windshield. “Well, this really sucks, you guys,” Gyles said, yelling at the Prim
als. “I invited you all to a party, and then I get stuck on the way there.”

  After cutting the engine to avoid drawing in more smoke, he crawled into the back of the Humvee, ignoring the screaming mob. He tossed aside the ammo cans and boxes of MREs, until he found the five-gallon plastic water jug he was searching for. He dug through his pack and found his poncho liner, which he soaked with water before pulling it over his shoulders. In a medic pack, he found a foil space blanket and covered himself with it. Several minutes later, the frequency of the vehicle being banged and rocked with the impact of the Primals began to slow. He peered through a gap in the armor and saw that the flares had gone out.

  The Primals were moving away. No longer able to see him, they were being drawn farther into the burning city by the blazing fire around him. He strained to see the nearest building was in flames. Through the vehicle’s armor, he could feel the heat and hoped the Humvee would survive; he really didn’t want to burn inside, or become dinner on the outside. He reached for the jug and splashed more water on his face and took a long drink. Then he felt the last of the Primals stop their banging and move away.

  “Well, boys, I know you all want to play, but Sergeant is tired. I just want to take a quick nap, if that’s okay with you all,” he said as he dropped back against his rucksack.

  The heat of the armor burned on his face like he was staring at the sun. He could hear the infected outside screaming—not from the hunt, but from the agony of being cooked alive. He put his hand back on the skin of the armor. It was warm, but not so hot that it burned him. He was exhausted and had nothing left to give today. Gyles shrugged and poured more water over his head. He lay back and closed his eyes, wondering if the people in the church made it out.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Day of Infection, Plus Twenty

  Mount Weather Emergency Control Center, Virginia

  The lights flashed on with a loud metallic click. Luke startled awake, staring up at the ceiling. He heard groans from the other bunks and the clanking of a door at the end of the large bay. He looked at his watch, it was just after 04:00.

  “Damn, they don’t sleep late here,” he mumbled as he sat up and rolled his legs off the bed, letting his bare feet rest on the cold concrete floor. He watched as carts rolled and squeaked across the floor, filled with breakfast trays. They stopped at the tables and started passing them out as residents staggered over and sat down.

  Luke turned his head when he heard the familiar clopping of heels on the cement floor. Doctor Whitaker was walking with two men in the security uniforms. She carried a bundle of folders under a wooden clipboard. At the edge of the dining tables, now filled with the residents, she stopped and began reading names. Some, she said, were released, others she instructed to go to examination rooms. She looked over and made eye contact with him briefly before turning away.

  As the doctor continued to read the names, Luke stared at her.

  “Cassie Smith, exam room one. Alex Burns, report to maintenance. Hanna Jones, report to science. Jeremy Clive, return to duty—”

  “Hold up on that,” a security guard interrupted. He pointed at Clive, who was sitting at the table, shoveling scrambled eggs into his mouth. “Clive, grab your gear and stay with us. The director wants an eye kept on you.”

  Clive shrugged and continued eating. The doctor turned and glared at the guard for interrupting her. She continued reading the names. Luke’s ears perked when he heard his team’s names, followed by his own. “… Luke Ross, exam room six.”

  Then she looked at him again and continued past the dining tables and through a door at the end of the dorm that Luke hadn’t noticed the night before. He looked up as Weaver stopped beside him. The man was out of the coveralls and back in his Army uniform.

  “What’s going on?” Luke asked.

  Weaver shook his head. “They did this yesterday right after we got checked in. They gave us full medical exams then brought us into a room and asked a load of questions. We all stayed pretty quiet, but Kate was blabbing about monsters and you saving her in the refugee camp.” He laughed. “I’m pretty sure the doc thinks that little girl is crazy.”

  Luke grunted. “Because she’s the only one telling the truth.”

  Shrugging, Weaver laughed again. “Exactly. I told you these folks aren’t ready to hear that stuff. Last they heard was riots in the Capital, then the lockdown bell rang. Most of these new folks don’t even know what’s going on or heard from friends and family. Plenty of them are just diplomats and were evacuated at the request of some senator. They’ve been waiting here until the facility can figure out what to do with them.”

  “So, they really have no idea?” Luke asked.

  “Talking to Clive, we’re the first people to be let inside since the gate was closed.”

  “The doctor knows, and that director, and whoever they report to knows. They knew about the infection and activating the jammer; they just aren’t telling everyone for some reason.”

  Weaver looked over at the food. “Well, we’re about to find out soon enough. Grab some chow, and I’ll meet you in the exam room.”

  After the soldier moved away, Luke grabbed a shower bag that had been provided with the locker and his bunk. He made his way past the dining tables and to the latrine, where he stayed quiet, listening in on the conversations of the strangers.

  Weaver was right in his assumptions. There was a woman and her daughters who had flown in from Europe just two days before the borders were closed. She was the wife of an ambassador, being held in quarantine until her husband arrived. She hadn’t heard from him in two weeks. A man from Pennsylvania said he was an expert advisor to a White House staffer who still hadn’t checked into the facility. Luke moved up to a shaving mirror and was flanked by a thin man with a bulging beer belly. He had tribal tattoos covering his sunburnt arms.

  “You came in with the soldiers. Nice to have friends inside,” the man said without looking over.

  Splashing his face with water and applying shaving cream, Luke nodded. “Yeah, just yesterday.” He glanced at the man in his peripheral vision. He had scars on his neck and shoulders and didn’t fit the diplomat profile. “What about you?”

  “Yeah, three days ago.”

  Luke turned. “I thought nobody has come in since the doors were closed.”

  The man grinned. “Nobody has come in through those doors maybe. I came in through the west branch. I’m a helo pilot.”

  Looking at the man’s long, unkept hair, Luke shrugged. “You don’t look military; who do you fly for?”

  The man looked at him sideways. “C.N.R.T. Just shuttled a crew here from another facility. Waiting for this doctor to clear me so I can grab another mission.” He stopped and looked at Luke’s folded uniforms on the bench, the black cargo pants on the top of stack. “Aren’t you with the Nert also? I figured the uniforms and all.”

  Luke forced a grin. “First rule of Nert, right? Don’t talk about Nert,“ he said laughing.

  The man chuckled. “Exactly, you never really do know; they’re taking all sorts these days. What are you doing with the response teams then? Rescues? Escorts?”

  Luke shook his head. “Anything to make a dollar, you know. I’m hoping I can get a new gig myself. That last thing in D.C. was tough.”

  “Shit, you ain’t lying—jobs are getting shittier by the minute. I was sent to bring some woman back from Arlington. Got there, and she was dead, her security team all turned. Barely made it out of there my own damn self.” The man splashed water on his face and wiped it with a towel. He dropped back to a bench and began dressing. He put on a pair of black cargo pants, and a black utility shirt over a white T-shirt. “You know, if that director tries to send you east, tell him no thank you. Nothing but death that way. Get out to the Rockies or Texas, if you can.”

  Luke moved to the bench and dried off. “Any news on Fort Knox?”

  The man shook his head. “Nope, they’re doing their own thing, just like Michigan and the M
idwest states. Nert can only offer help, can’t force them to take it.”

  “I hear that,” Luke said, pulling on the long pants and lacing his boots.

  The man quickly stood beside him and extended his hand. “Hey, you ever need a pilot, ask for me, Aaron Jones.”

  Luke returned the man’s handshake. “Luke Ross. I’ll do that. Safe travels,” he said, watching the pilot walk away. He looked back in the mirror and grabbed up the rest his gear and put on his sheriff’s deputy shirt. Things were going sideways fast if the government was taking contractors like Jones. The man was friendly enough, but he wasn’t the government type and too free with his information to be a professional. If Luke had to guess, they picked him up at the end of a bar.

  He left the restroom and walked by the carts filled with breakfast. He grabbed a biscuit and a cup of coffee and moved to the exam rooms. He found room six with the door open and most of his team already inside. The space was shaped like a classroom, except instead of desks, it was filled with a long white table surrounded by chairs. Benches lined the outside walls. He walked around the table, to the end of the room, and sat on a bench.

  Just as he looked up, the door closed. Doctor Whitaker was inside with the two security guards, one with a red cap and a thick, black mustache. Behind them, they were joined by Clive, who was now back in full uniform. The doctor went to speak, when there was a knock at the door. Clive reached back and opened it. He stepped aside, and the director entered. He looked around the room, inspecting faces, then sat at the head of the table.

  He cleared his throat and then spoke. “Doctor Whitaker, any issues to report?”

  She shook her head. “No, sir, they’re all cleared. I see no reason to further hold them in quarantine.”