“You okay?”
“No. Not really.”
“You know how to get to level five?”
“Not really, no.”
That quieted everyone.
“Well, that’s just great,” Jeremy Walton muttered.
“Level five is around here somewhere,” Sarah Burton snapped. “We get to a staircase and figure it out from there.”
Gus’s attention drifted to what looked like a space-age chamber against the far-right wall. It was the length of two school buses with a single glass window that stretched at least half that. All manner of chairs and consoles filled the area inside, and Gus spied something that lifted his spirits.
A gunrack. Partially filled. With accompanying lockers.
“Did you figure out the doors?” Cory asked, nodding at the impressive entrance.
“No,” Sarah reported. “It needed a security code. I punched in a few keys but no. Those doors are staying open. Which means we gotta get moving. Now.”
“They’ll be here soon,” Cory said.
“How many, Gus?” Bruno asked.
Gus focused on him again. “What?”
“How many are there?”
“A lot,” Gus replied in a lifeless tone. “All of them. The tunnel was filled. Lips and assholes. We…”
His throat clutched at the thought of Collie again. He cleared his pipes. “We slowed them down. Shot a few, even. But there’s more. Plenty more.”
That silenced them.
“The cars work,” Sarah Burton offered, indicating a bank of parked battery-charged vehicles. There were more than enough to transport the group. “We take those and get going. Right now.”
After a flurry of assenting nods and grunts, the group turned to leave. Bruno and Cory had gone five steps when Monica stopped them, pulling on Bruno’s sleeve. She pointed.
Gus remained standing next to the EV he rode in on.
“Hey,” Bruno said. “You thinking of making a last stand or something?”
“Sorta.”
“Well, forget it,” he said with a disapproving scowl. “C’mon, man. She’d kick your—” he glanced at Monica, wavered, then said, “Collie would kick your ass if you tried that shit.”
“Yeah, she would,” Gus agreed. “Guaranteed. Which is why I’m not doing that. But I’m not coming with you guys, either.”
That stopped the rest of the pack.
As an answer, Gus reached up and squeezed his beard, wringing it free of the rotten liquid. Droplets speckled the floor. “You all smell it,” he said. “I took one of those piss bags right across the chops. I’m… spattered with the shit. And you know what that means. They still got some Moes left. I don’t know how many, but I know if I go with you, they’ll track us down. They’ll track you down. So… I’m staying here.”
He rolled his eyes, indicating the garage. “Somewhere around here, anyway. Whichever way you go, I’ll go in the other direction. Give you more time.”
“Hell with that,” Cory said. “Just strip right here.”
“It’s not only on my clothes. It’s on me,” Gus explained. “My face, my beard. I’m covered. Look. You go on, now. Don’t worry about me. I’ll find you when I’m able. You two—,” he nodded at Bruno and Cory, “—take them back to the island. I’ll get back eventually. No more than a couple of weeks.”
If you can, their expressions said.
Bruno stared, torn between arguing the point or staying or some other shit Gus couldn’t understand. A second later, however, the man extended his hand.
“No handshakes,” Gus said, warding off the gesture. “I got this shit on my hands. I don’t think the mindless need much to find you.”
Bruno dropped his arm. “If you… ah… stick around here. Any amount of time,” he began in a creaky voice. “And come across any nudie books…”
Gus smiled. “You got it. You bet.”
That seemed to satisfy him. Bruno turned and faced the others. “All right. We’re wasting the man’s time.”
The islanders moved. Sarah Burton nodded at Gus before hauling herself aboard an EV. Cory was already behind the wheel.
“Watch yourself, Gus,” he said. “Good luck.”
They finished piling into the two vehicles and started the rigs. Rich Trinidad hung back, sizing up Gus as he, in turn, sized up the gunslinger.
“Want one of these?” Rich asked. He held up a very futuristic gun in one hand. It was sleek, black, and shorter than most rifles.
The sight of the weapon got Gus’s attention. “Yeah,” he said. “I do.”
“Over there. In that long-assed booth there. We didn’t take them all. We were going to, but we decided to wait. Until you got back…”
Gus glanced at the booth along the far wall. “Thanks,” he said. “I’ll do that.”
“Don’t take all day, now.”
“I won’t.”
Rich Trinidad considered the EV and people waiting for him. He backed up and boarded the vehicle. His cowhide vest gleamed underneath the sparse light, and he tipped his sombrero in Gus’s direction.
Jane Wong sped off first. Cory followed, while his passengers, Bruno, Monica, and Rich Trinidad, kept their eyes on Gus.
Jane Wong signaled right.
“We’re going down,” Sarah Burton shouted, her voice carrying in the garage.
Shit, Gus cringed, glancing over his shoulder to see if anyone was coming up the tunnel. When he looked back, Sarah and Jane were already gone, and Cory was about to make his turn.
Monica waved.
Gus lifted his hand, but the little girl disappeared around the turn before he could wave back.
36
The EVs were completely silent as they whizzed around the corner, out of Gus’s sight.
He stood there, in that overwhelming garage, and hung his head. Oddly enough, no thoughts went through his mind. Not a goddamn one. He was drawing a blank, and in his grief, the idea pushed through that perhaps he should start thinking. Start remembering.
You thinking of making a last stand? Bruno asked him.
Sorta.
“Well, forget that. Collie would kick your ass if you tried that shit.”
He chuckled. Collie would indeed kick his ass if he tried that shit.
But damn he was tempted. So very, very tempted. And, even though, ultimately, he hadn’t really decided which way he was going to go, he was going to do one thing, before all else.
He released a long sigh. “Just so you know…” he whispered into that haunting silence of the garage. “I think about you. A lot. A whole lot.”
And then he was back. Back at Lazy Lou’s showroom, on that wonderful piece of mattress heaven, face-to-face with Collie. His words quieted her, and she frowned ever so slightly in the dark.
“A lot?” she asked him.
“Yeah.”
“Well, that’s good. I think about you, too. A lot.”
And Gus believed, truly believed, that his happiness at that moment in time, rivaled the brightness of the sun.
“Yeah,” he whispered again. He looked towards the yawning chasm of darkness that was the tunnel.
“Yeah,” he said with a little more heat, a little more resolve.
“Well, that’s good,” Collie agreed. “I think about you, too. A lot. Still got a chubby?”
Gus barked a laugh and wiped the side of his miserable, ass-stinking face. He shook his head and stared, stared at the dark tunnel. Whitecap’s throat. And he was standing, he supposed, not quite around the back teeth area, but close enough.
The gunrack caught his eye, then.
From where he stood, he could see three of them. Three of those high-powered death-dealing bang sticks.
“Got half a chub, babe,” he said as he walked over to the open door of the booth. “At least half a chub.”
The booth was indeed some sort of checkpoint, streamlined and clean enough that it might’ve been quarantined. All the interior lights were switched on, which made him wonder why
this room was still powered but not the rest of the place. Government bunker, he figured. Probably had a janitorial equivalent of an AI or the sort, programmed to go into sleep mode. Or limited sleep mode. There was a keypad to the right of the door, but he left it untouched. All he needed was to punch in a number or two and have the door slam shut in his face.
Gus stepped into the room, perhaps just a little wider than a bus. He went over to the gunrack and softly whistled at the sophistication of the firearms. BELGIUM MADE was stamped into the stock, along with the serial number ‘ST1X9990T’.
“Stix,” Gus whispered. “Boom sticks,” he added as a smile spread across his face. “That’s a goddamn good omen if I ever saw one.”
He took one of the weapons, marveling at how light it was. The gun was awkward against his shoulder at first, as the barrel and stock were much shorter than he was used to. Once he braced it, however, he understood how it was supposed to fit his shoulder and his hand. Along the top of the weapon, a clear plastic casing contained what appeared to be a fucking leg’s worth of stacked ammunition.
“Jesus,” Gus whispered. He started counting the rounds and gave up after he got to forty, telling himself he had a shit-ton of ammunition. If and when he ran out, the gun would let him know.
Beneath the rack was an open cupboard. Five more identical magazines lay upon the top shelf, leftover ammunition the islanders had left for him and Collie. They were just over a foot long, and he realized the ammunition itself probably weighed more than the actual gun.
He placed the spare mags on a desk.
“All right,” he huffed. “Armed and fuckin’ dangerous.”
And so very alone.
Gus stewed in that depressing moment, but not for long. His fucked-up foot distracted him, buzzing like an outboard motor stuck in neutral.
“Enough of that shit,” he rumbled as he hefted the weapon.
He peered through its sights, noting the blue targeting dot in the center. Open lockers stood against the wall just past the computers, in the back where there weren’t any windows looking into the garage. A light switched on as he stepped in front of one locker, illuminating the contents of the cubbyhole. Combat gear. Gus scowled at the padded vests, knee pads, elbow pads, and riot shields. He tapped the ST1X’s muzzle on one shield. Not glass. Not plastic either, but some other material he was unfamiliar with. There were metal shields as well, but after lifting each one, he let them be, deeming them too heavy. He’d need both hands for the ST1X.
His eyes drifted back to the body armor.
It wasn’t turnout gear from a fire station, and thus, didn’t offer full-body protection, but it would work for now. He struggled into the armor, thanking Christ above for Velcro straps and plastic buckles. The chest piece was bulky, ribbed, with an excess of flaps and pockets. The armor was light, however, which he greatly appreciated, and once he had it on, he paused and glanced around the place for a mirror.
Of which there was not one.
Gus pulled on the elbow and knee pads. He left the boots but grabbed a helmet and pulled out a black balaclava stuffed inside. The wool mask went on, as did the helmet in a comfortably snug fit. A black visor protected his eyes, while an extensive bar shielded his cheeks and jaw.
Feeling positively badass, Gus paused when he realized he could smell his own foul breath, as well as the nut-juice in his beard.
“Fuck me,” he muttered, taking in that stink.
He reached up under the face bar and pinched both the chin strap and the balaclava, to get some fresh air in there. He looked around for gloves but failed to locate any. There was some tactical webbing, but he was at a loss as to how to put it on.
“That’s that,” he grumbled. He stepped over to the spare magazines, picked up one, and realized he had nowhere to put the damn thing.
“Don’t laugh, Collie,” he whispered. “I’m doing what I can. You should see me with paint gear.”
On impulse, he leaned over the desk and peered out the window, eyeing that yawning black chasm that was the outer tunnel. Nothing came forth. It was blissfully quiet. He examined one of the computer terminals, one of which was already powered up. It showed a red screen curtly asking for an authorization code.
Gus left it and walked back out into the garage.
He spotted a black luxury liner of a limousine parked in front of a bank of elevator doors at the far wall. He had to walk a few steps to really get a good look at the car, but there was no mistaking it. The thought of ‘what the hell was a limo doing in a secret government bunker?’ didn’t last for long. No doubt it belonged to the Prime Minister. The EV Cory had picked him and Collie up in was nearby, and still functional. A quick inspection of the basic controls and Gus figured he could drive the thing.
He returned to the main booth and leaned against the corner in thought. He settled in and gazed at the dark tunnel beyond. It was almost peaceful, except for the shitty smell all around him. With a sigh, he cradled the ST1X in one arm, pointing it at the ceiling.
They would be coming sooner or later.
He’d be waiting for them when they did.
37
Gus jerked into focus when an explosion rolled along the length of the tunnel’s throat, followed by a haunting, metallic peal of failing steel. There was a second, deep-throated groan of what might’ve been a submarine’s hull being squeezed to breaking point, then a startling clap of an immense collapsing weight, not unlike a beer can being crushed next to a microphone.
Then silence.
Gus scanned the tunnel, his automatic weapon (at least he thought it was automatic) ready and braced against his shoulder. His anxiety level had gone from zero to ten in an instant. Nothing moved within the dark, but he knew they were out there.
Getting closer.
He waited, still positioned at the booth’s corner, wavering on whether he should stay and make like he was brave, or run for higher ground. The plan was to buy enough time for Bruno, Cory, Monica, and the rest of them to get away, to find that secret door and get out of Whitecap. But what if they couldn’t? What if that exit wouldn’t open for them? He vaguely remembered Collie once talking about being unable to enter the bunker from the outside, because those access points were secured and locked from the inside. But what if whatever had initially blasted the ceiling out and blocked the main tunnel had also rendered that escape route useless?
“There’s a way out,” he whispered, trying to alleviate those thoughts. “Right, Collie? That’s right. Why else would you send them to level five? They can get out. Sure they can. I just hope they can find it.”
With an uneasy swallow, he leaned against the corner and kneeled. He wished for infrared goggles or some other fancy soldier shit to help him see in the dark. He bet there was something like that in the complex behind him, which was weird as you would think they’d have it near the entrance. That lack of foresight annoyed him. At least he had a gun with ammunition. Considerable ammunition. All he needed now were targets. If things got hairy, he had two options—retreat into the guard booth, or jump into the EV and drive for the coast.
Figuratively speaking, of course.
A minute passed. Then two. Nothing moved in the tunnel.
Ammunition, he thought while eyeing the dark. He faltered and checked his weapon. He’d already flicked off the safety, so that wasn’t bothering him, but he sensed something amiss. Plenty of ammunition was inside the booth, and he could quickly reload if he…
Gus stopped and studied the weapon in the frail overhead light. A chill lanced through him.
How the hell did you reload the goddamn thing?
Did the magazine pop out or eject straight up or… what?
“Shit,” he whispered, not seeing any kind of switch that did just that. “Well… shit.”
Then he heard it.
A low wail, like a gush of water from a broken dam, except it was a rabid flood of voices, rising and falling. A harsh, tuneless screaming that weakened his knees the very second he i
dentified it. Gus should have been used to that sound by now. The truth was, however, he’d usually been drunk—imperviously drunk—and rendered one-hundred percent mentally bulletproof against the horrors of the day.
He had no such protection this time.
With the maddening roar now filtering out of the tunnel and into the garage, Gus rose and went back inside the security booth. He took the two other ST1X battle rifles off the rack and carried all three back to the corner. Once there, he leaned the extra weapons against the wall, within easy reach. They were all loaded, and he figured it would be easier to grab a fresh firearm than reload a spent one.
That was his thinking, anyway.
And God above, how the mindless screamed. A singalong of enraged gibberish, tormented and plague-ridden, and yet absolutely yearning to either spread their disease or just straight-up kill. And not just kill, but tear the living apart.
Gus listened to the approaching squall of insanity. For a full minute, he vacillated between shooting them all or running away. There were a lot of mindless charging toward him. A regular rampaging mob of thrashers. Sweat dribbled into Gus’s eye and he squinted it away. The stink still plaguing him was borderline, stomach-turning rancid. His bad foot was livid, droning on like two bees fucking in a thin blanket.
His fingers flexed upon the gun’s grip under the barrel.
Nothing appeared out of the dark.
Even more interesting, the motion-automated lights remained off—the same lights that he and Cory had triggered when they drove through the tunnel.
His ears perked as he caught a new sound, one that accompanied the mindless screaming. An underlying beat to the screeching, flaming disintegration of vocal cords, as if an entire town was attempting to gargle through one massive coordinated act of fire-eating. Gus didn’t know what that new sound was, but it came across like barrels rolling across a floor.
Then it hit him.
Boots.
That straightened his spine.
Hundreds of boots, sneakers, bare feet, whatever the fuck.
And all of them running toward him. Smelling him. Knowing he was just ahead at the end of a long and tenebrous passageway.
Mountain Man (Book 5): Make Me King Page 26
