ZNIPER: A Sniper’s Journey Through The Apocalypse.

by Ward III, C.

  “You’re a pretty bright kid. When we get out of here, you should find a better job in this military,” Ilic complimented, yet in his foggy mind, he envisioned scalpels and needles puncturing his skin while he was tied down on a cold metal table being experimented on. He needed a plan to get out of the stateroom and then off the freighter so he could get back to his team.

  Novikov’s mind was swimming, trying to remember details of his home and family. Even recent memories were fragmented. “Were you at the San Francisco port?” he asked Ilic, receiving only a negative headshake. Trying to hold onto a thought, Novikov began to talk out loud, attempting to piece together what had happened.

  “My company replaced a unit who first secured the seaport. The war planners in Moscow picked San Francisco as the first Amerikan landing zone because of the political climate. We know that Yankees love their guns and would fight against any foreigners, but California had strict laws prohibiting personal ownership, and the population of San Francisco had been completely unarmed by choice. Headquarters expected little resistance, only the typical food riots and sporadic disorderly misconduct from the indigenous, but nothing that would require deadly force.

  “The aid workers, attached to armed security patrols, ventured into the urban and industrialized areas around the docks. They had found an entire warehouse full of people—sick, dying, and some already dead from disease and malnutrition. The warehouse had been divided up by blankets and cardboard-like indoor slum shanties. There was some sort of whacked-out zealous leader that kept them all locked up inside using fear as control. The aid workers attempted to get some of the sick to come back to the hospital ship for treatment, but none of them would leave the security of the warehouse in fear of monsters.

  “A day later, we encountered some of the psychotic crazies the warehouse people feared. We employed riot gear, tear gas, rubber bullets, the usual. Soon after that, the local regulars who crowded the port entrance every day no longer seem interested in medical care or rations. Mobs became more and more aggressive, even attacking each other.

  “A week into it, our barricades couldn’t hold them back any longer. Chain-link fences toppled over from the mass. The people didn’t look right—not like malnutrition but savage looking. Tear gas and batons had no effect, but they weren’t armed, so the rules of engagement prohibited us from doing much more. A directional-sound cannon was used, but it only made the crowd more aggressive. They swarmed toward us, pushing us back down the pier toward the ships. More and more kept coming; the streets were packed with them, shoulder to shoulder, sidewalk to sidewalk. Without provocation, they charged at us. Stampeding. Trampling their own.

  “The yelling and screaming was so loud I couldn’t think. One of our younger soldiers got scared and let an AK burst rip into the crowd. Fear and confusion set in, thinking that the crowd was shooting at us. And then it happened. Carnage. We slaughtered hundreds, and they kept pouring down through the city streets toward us. The commanders didn’t call cease-fire. Just the opposite. They ordered the machine guns on the ship to cover our retreat. A dozen PKM machine guns swept back and forth, into the unarmed mob that continued to charge forward in a barrage of death.

  “I don’t know if I was afraid or sick to my stomach watching a massacre of thousands right before my eyes…” Novikov trailed off. “I was prepared to fight the mighty Amerikan army, but I was not prepared for that. Nobody was. The UN liaisons were as afraid as we were. They didn’t say a word during the massacre.”

  Novikov continued, “I think that you might be right. They know we’re infected, and we’re going to be lab rats to be experimented on to figure out what this cursed disease is. Knowing the GRU intelligence services, they’ll weaponize it against the Persians.”

  “Well, if we’re going to get out of here, we need to do it quick. Once we reach Washington, this freighter is heading west into open waters without the rest,” Ilic said.

  “What? Why? How do you know that?”

  “This freighter we are on is empty. It’s returning to Russia to pick up another infantry battalion. The submarine that is escorting us right now is stopping in Seattle. Whidbey Island, Naval Air Station was my team’s next objective to secure. Whidbey Island is the next foothold. We need to be off this freighter before then,” Ilic instructed.

  Later that day—evening time, they presumed—the heavy metal hatch cracked open slightly, just enough to slide in a couple of field rations and bottles of water. Instead of attacking the door, which Ilic knew was chained to prevent them from escaping, he simply took the items provided. “Thanks, comrades. Could you let us know how much longer we’re to be quarantined? It’s гребаное boring in here.”

  A muffled voice replied, “The doctor will examine you tomorrow for symptoms. Sit tight.” A man in a white hazmat suit peered through the narrow opening.

  Ilic nodded his thanks as the door shut and the locking mechanism engaged. Hidden next to the door, Novikov held the jagged metal leg of a broken chair, ready to stab and slash his way to freedom. Ilic looked into his beady eyes and shook his head. “Next time, friend. Next time we’re getting out of here before they dissect us for science.”

  They tore open the field rations, looking for anything usable to enable an escape. As sleep and hunger avoided them, neither of them ate or slept.

  Ilic could hear them coming. Whatever damage his eardrums had suffered from years of gunfights and explosions had been repaired by the virus. Rubber soles of the Hazmat suit squeaked against the linoleum-tiled floor, and the soldier’s boots thumped heavily as they approached through the long passageway.

  The locking mechanism on the outside disengaged with a clank, and the heavy metal hatch cracked open with a groan. Their morning rations and water bottles slid into the stateroom as they had the day before.

  “Comrade. Comrade,” Ilic whispered through the crack. “We have a plumbing problem. The toilet’s broke, and I can’t seem to fix it. Could you ask your boss to move us to a different room, please?”

  A hazmat mask peered through the crack. Ilic turned his face to prohibit the man from seeing his constricting pupils. He motioned with a hand toward water on the deck.

  “Turn on the lights,” the man ordered.

  “I would, but my friend is sleeping,” Ilic said in a hushed tone, motioning toward the bunkbed, where a lump was covered in a thick gray wool blanket. Ilic fought the urge to reach through the door to choke this guy.

  The man in the hazmat suit shifted his head to inspect the bed, then slid out of view.

  “Step back, away from the door. Turn around and put your forehead against the wall,” the soldier commanded. Ilic complied. The chain was lifted, and the steel hatch opened fully. Ilic sucked in a silent, excited breath through his teeth. The soldier stepped in and placed the muzzle of an AK47 into Ilic’s back. “Do not move.”

  The light bleeding into the darkened stateroom from the passageway shifted as the man in the hazmat suit entered to inspect the restroom. Sloshing through the puddled water, he peered down into the overflowing toilet to see plastic ration packaging clogging the drain. Before he could comprehend the problem, Novikov, hidden in the shower stall, hit the man across the back of his head with the broken chair leg. The sound made a sickening crunch, and his limp body fell backward into the stateroom.

  The escort soldier tensed, shifted his eyes briefly from Ilic to the fallen white suit. Before the soldier could react, Ilic spun 180 degrees, palm struck the AK47 to the side with his left hand, and punched the guard in the face with so much force it lifted him off his feet. Ilic was on him again before he landed. With two hands, he lifted the soldier’s head, then slammed it against the deck, knocking him unconscious.

  Ilic didn’t want to kill the soldier, with whom he felt a military brotherhood bond. He felt sorry for injuring the man, but he had stood in his way to freedom. An alien command took control over him. He took the soldier’s arm, lifted the sleeve, and sank his teeth into the flesh until he t
asted blood. Confused by his own actions, he turned to find Novikov doing the same thing through the hazmat suit.

  They locked the two men inside the stateroom before fleeing down the passageway. They didn’t know where they were, but they knew where they wanted to be: topside.

  Ilic looked above a broom-closet door at a small metal plate that read “03-20-4.” Every compartment on a ship is marked with a coordinate designator. The first set of numbers lets you know what deck level you are on. The second set was a reference to the frame location in relation to the front of the ship. And the third, depending on whether it was even or odd, referred to either port- or starboard side of the vessel.

  “Come on,” Ilic whispered as he descended down a set of steep stairs. They needed to go down two more decks before reaching the main level. Just before they rounded a corner at the end of a narrow passageway, Novikov grabbed Ilic, stopping him and pulling him pack against the bulkhead. “Get ready,” Novikov whispered, right before three ship workers rounded the corner and walked right into them.

  Ilic couldn’t recall his mother’s name, the school he attended as a child, or even what year it currently was, but his Systema martial arts training flowed through him with perfect clarity. His own speed and strength surprised him as he punched, grabbed, gouged, applied pressure to joints, and bit into flesh in a whirlwind of combat. He didn’t feel the pain of the blow that slipped through, his muscles didn’t feel fatigued. Maybe the disease in them wasn’t a curse, but a blessing. Ilic felt more lethal than ever before.

  Novikov had never been taught or practiced advanced hand-to-hand combat, yet he parried and countered punches with ease. His blocks and strikes flowed like wind through branches in a tree. Barely breathing heavily, with a face covered in blood, he glanced behind him to Ilic, who held an unconscious man in a standing choke hold with his teeth buried in his victim’s collar.

  The two-man team of terror continued toward the main deck, pacifying eight more ship workers and armed soldiers along the way. The thought of arming themselves with the dropped weapons never entered their minds. They charged through the last hatch into blinding sunlight that warmed their pale, sticky skin and fresh air that filled their nostrils with the smell of the salty sea. The lack of shipping containers piled high across the deck verified that Ilic had been correct in assuming this freighter was empty. Off the starboard side to the east, the Amerikan coastline was close enough to make out details of beaches and small buildings. Off the portside was the vast open sea, all the way to the horizon.

  Novikov found a few orange life preservers, offering Ilic a couple. But Ilic gazed out into the open, empty sea, searching for something invisible. Ilic was supposed to do something. Go somewhere? Meet with someone? But he couldn’t remember.

  “There’s an inflatable life raft; let’s go!” Novikov insisted while he tugged on his stationary friend.

  As Ilic stared out at the open sea, he heard and felt a deep muffled drum, followed by a shockwave that rippled across the water’s surface until it hit the freighter, causing them to take an involuntary step back to catch their balance on the nonskid deck. Not too far off the portside, a massive bubble of fire, smoke, steam, and spray erupted that shot a hundred meter’s geyser into the air.

  The freighter sirens blared. Red lights flashed. The captain began to steer away from the subsurface explosion with evasive maneuvering. Watching the fireball rise and roll up from the ocean surface, Ilic remembered. He remembered his CCO special operations force team in a P-650 special-purpose midget submarine. Had they just been destroyed? Ilic couldn’t comprehend what had happened.

  He turned and ran to catch up with Novikov, who had just tossed a life-raft pod over the edge and was preparing to jump. Ilic leapt over the railing past him, crossed his arms over his chest, and tilted his head back, waiting for the twenty-meter freefall to come to a swift, watery stop.

  By the time Ilic resurfaced to find Novikov and a small bright-orange rubber raft, the thoughts of his prior teammates and a blown-up submarine had been erased from his memory as the prion continued to deteriorate his brain.

  They both looked upward at the massive gray-colored shipping freighter named “Amherst Islander” passing by, as huge wakes threatened to tip over the tiny raft. They were relieved to have escaped the pending torture of being lab rats, pleased to realize that, by the time the freighter reached Russia, most of—if not all—the crew would be cursed.

  Novikov handed him an oar, and they both began to paddle toward the mainland, to a place where they could be predators once again and continue their conquering mission.

  HOMECOMING

  A time for gathering and celebration

  The muffled sound of gunfire woke Erica in a panic. She sat upright quickly, inducing a rush of dizziness that made her stomach queasy. Her vision came into focus, and she could then see Victor sitting in a chair next to her bed. At the foot of her bed, sitting on the clean, tiled floor, were Zavier, Michael, and Curtis, playing a card game. The small room had a hospital-type feel to it, but she couldn’t remember Lake City having a hospital or even a doctor’s office.

  “Were those gunshots?” she said, a little woozy, laying her head back down and wincing at the sharp pain from her leg wound.

  “Yes, don’t worry about it, though. The guards on the wall are taking care of a small group of Grays. How are you feeling?” Victor asked concerned

  The children dropped their cards on the floor, jumping up to see Erica. Curtis and Michael kept a comfortable distance, knowing that she had been injured, but Zavier dove right in and gave her a big strong hug, which she accepted and returned.

  “It’s so good to see you boys. I feel like I am dreaming. Where are we?” she asked after Zavier finally released her from his clutches.

  “High school nurses’ station. We’ve transformed the adjacent rooms into our designated infirmary. Mostly for elderly patients. Some cuts and bruises to fix periodically, but you’re our first trauma patient.” Victor explained.

  “How long have I been out?” Erica winced, attempting to sit up.

  “A couple of days. You lost a lot of blood,” Victor said, glancing toward her leg bandage. “You’ll be interested in the other wing of the school that is being used for biological research.”

  “Really?” she said, not quite believing him or the capacities of a small town to conduct any sort of substantial research.

  “Really; our medical team has made some extraordinary discoveries. With your help, maybe all the pieces can be put together to paint us a clearer picture of what this disease is. But that all can wait until after you’ve healed up. The boys and I want to hear all about your journey over the past few months.”

  “‘Few months’? What month is it, anyway?”

  “Mid-October. You’ve been on the road for a while.”

  “I wish we had been on the road. It was more like a cross-country hike through hell.” Erica went on to tell her captivated audience about her dangerous adventure, starting on the day the lights went out until their linkup. Victor wrote in a notebook, occasionally asking questions about specific occurrences he felt needed to be retold to the Town Defense Force. “We had to leave behind an extraordinary man near Houghton Lake. He had a military vehicle full of supplies. If possible, we should go back for it.”

  “Already did. Kevin told me about it. After we rendezvoused with the boys, we brought it back to town with us using the winch as a tow cable. We off-loaded the hardware, and the mechanics are working on the radiator problem right now. They think it’ll be an easy fix if you all didn’t overheat the engine too bad.” Victor shrugged.

  “Lt. Murphy?” Erica asked with sadness in her eyes.

  Victor only shook his head. When they had retrieved the Hummer, a small rowboat was anchored in the middle of the pond. With no signs of him, they assumed he’d taken his own life after spending his last day doing what he loved most.

  After she concluded with her retrospective account of their b
loody linkup story, Victor quickly highlighted their most noteworthy experiences. Knowing she was tired, he cut his stories short so she could rest.

  “Please don’t leave me,” she pleaded, her eyes slowly opening and closing from exhaustion.

  “Get some rest, my love. I need to go check on a few projects. You’re in a safe place here; don’t worry. I’ll come by later with dinner. As soon as Doc says your stitches are stable, we’ll get you home. You’ll love the house we picked out for you.” He kissed her forehead softly.

  “Can I stay here with Erica?” Zavier asked.

  “I would love that,” she said as her heart swelled with warmth, healthy and full of love again.

  “OK, little man, but please let her rest,” Victor said, tousling Zavier’s hair on the way out.

  Victor decided to walk back to the TDF building to grab his gear before heading out to check on the perimeter improvement projects Raymond was managing. Glancing toward the choppy lake and thinking that the fishermen in small boats were probably having a difficult day, he noticed something different: three tall antenna-type towers had been erected and secured to the park pavilion. Attached to the top of these towers were large rotating fan blades of various sizes.

  Intrigued, he walked in that direction to get a closer look. One of the town’s mechanics and an electrician were running wires and tightening bolts when Victor reached the base of the tower. “What do you think, boss? We’re using alternators pulled from a semi, a pickup truck, and a small sedan. The windmill blades were made of different materials as an experiment. We built the different models to test our theories. If any of these actually produce electricity, we can easily replicate the best windmill with all the spare parts lying around.”

  “That’s quite impressive. Any conclusions yet?”

  “Well, you’re here just in time,” the mechanic said, reaching to the picnic table to retrieve a head-light assembly, which probably came off a cannibalized scrap vehicle that had been stripped down to make the windmills. The electrician carefully held the stripped ends of the descending wire. When they touched the wire to the headlight, it flickered, then came to life. With high fives and back slaps, they congratulated each other. After successfully testing all three windmills, the two men began debating again on which design was better and how to best use the energy.