The Gristle & Bone Series (Book 1): The Flayed & The Dying

by Roach, Aaron

  “Your backs?” Litz mocked, wagging his fingers between Sasser and Davis, “Nah.”

  “Drop it, Litz,” murmured Ward. It wasn’t worth arguing about. He had grown accustomed to the harsh and unfair treatment from the other soldiers since their arrival at SZ3. He’d come to terms with the fact that he and Litz would be ostracized as cowards until they proved otherwise. In fact, their new sergeant had even moved them from in-processing to patrols, because in-processing “did not have enough opportunities for them to redeem themselves.”

  What did still upset Ward was the fact that there was some truth to the accusations hurled at them. Or at him, at least. From the moment he’d set foot in Boston to the moment he’d stepped aboard the helicopter that had whisked him away from there, he’d thought about running. Maybe that was why he had reconciled himself to the other soldiers’ icy demeanor towards him. He did feel bad for Litz, though. The man was a good soldier, a Federation man through and through. In fact, Ward was sure Litz would have stayed and fought to the end that day if Ward hadn’t dragged him into the helicopter that had taken them out of the doomed city. He, of all people, didn’t deserve to be labeled a coward.

  Litz was loud and brash while Ward was quiet and introspective, and in any other time and place they probably would have disliked each other greatly. But in the apocalyptic world in which they found themselves, and due to their shared experiences in Boston, the two men had become fast friends. Litz looked after Ward and had come to his defense on more than one occasion, while Ward had helped to deescalate situations Litz often stumbled into or caused, situations that could have led to him being placed on latrine duty, or worse, court martialed. It was good they were battle buddies.

  The truck rumbled to a stop and they heard the sergeant exit the cab, shouting for the men to get a move on. Ward, Litz and the other soldiers hopped to their feet and disembarked from the truck’s rear, stepping out from beneath the canvas into the early morning sunshine. This was their third supply run and they knew what to do. They formed a line that led from the trucks through the doors of the supermarket and began pilfering provisions from the store’s stocked shelves.

  They had been moving food down the line for about ten minutes or so when the first shot rang out. Before the soldiers could scatter and seek cover, the sounds of gunfire erupted from everywhere and Sasser hit the ground, his hands instinctively coming up to quench the warm fountain of blood that had erupted from his neck. Litz was there in an instant, dragging the downed soldier across the pavement to behind a nearby abandoned car. “Hold on, man,” Litz mumbled, stuffing his fingers into the wound. But the injury was too severe, and Sasser bled out in seconds. He breathed his last while grasping at Litz’s arm.

  Ward joined his friend behind the cover of the vehicle. They fired aimlessly outward, not knowing precisely where the attack was coming from. The passenger seat window above them shattered and the two men threw themselves on the ground just as bullet holes appeared where Ward’s head had been a moment before. They scrambled to their feet and ran back towards the waiting army truck, moving from cover to cover and firing sporadically towards the woods behind the town.

  From his branch, hidden by heavy foliage, Gabe watched the battle on the street through his scope. As much as he hated Bishop, the man’s plan was working. The raiding party had launched a successful ambush, and the soldiers could do nothing but fire aimlessly into the woods at unseen attackers. The food they had come to take was lying in boxes on the ground, forgotten as the soldiers fought for their lives.

  Though content to be on the winning side of the battle, Gabe had yet to fire a single shot. He didn’t see the soldiers as his enemies, and he found it difficult to pull the trigger. Besides, they were already beginning to fall back.

  Then, Gabe watched a retreating soldier suddenly stop to pick up one of the discarded boxes of food. The man ran to the truck, tossed it in, and then sprinted back for another. Bits of asphalt exploded around his feet as he moved in a zigzag pattern, avoiding the gunfire that pitter-pattered around him. His bravery seemed to inspire the other soldiers, who turned from their retreat to provide covering fire for their comrade. One of their shots found its mark and Gabe heard a man, someone from his own raiding party, cry out from the bushes somewhere below. The noise drew the soldiers’ attention, who whooped with joy at finally locating one of their hidden assailants. They concentrated their fire on the bush while the running soldier continued to collect boxes, delivering them back to the truck until there were only a few left lying on the street.

  Gabe tracked the soldier through his scope, willing him to stop. Come on, man, he whispered to himself, you guys have enough, just leave the rest. But the soldier ran on, collecting more food. He thought of Molly and Riley and how hungry they were, and then prayed for forgiveness for what he was about to do. He lined the crosshairs over where the man’s head was about to be and pulled the trigger. A cloud of red mist and brain matter exploded into the air down below.

  Murderer.

  From the back of the truck, Ward watched as the lifeless Davis, carried by the momentum of his sprint, skidded face-first to a stop on the asphalt. The box he’d been holding tumbled open next to his body, spilling fruit.

  “Bastards,” Litz muttered next to him.

  The truck kicked forward and the soldiers in them watched as their attackers revealed themselves, charging out of the woods and from behind buildings, shouting their victory. Some of those continued to take the occasional potshot at the retreating trucks, and the soldiers ducked as the canvas around them peppered and let in sunlight. They stayed low, only coming back upright once they were well out of range.

  -54-

  Thaniel stood atop the surfaced Shiloh, the wind rushing through his hair and the water lapping at the hull beneath his feet. There was no land in sight. It was like he was on some secluded metal island in the middle of the sea – but this was no tropical paradise. The wind was biting, and the ocean spray was cold. In his hands he held binoculars loaned to him by Captain Perry, the Shiloh’s commanding officer. He brought them up to his face and peered through the lenses, bringing close the ships in the distance.

  It was a flotilla of civilian vessels. There were cruise ships and cargo ships, bobbing like floating monoliths among a fleet of smaller craft; sailboats, superyachts, fishing vessels and derelicts, some of which were tied together. As he watched, figures ran across decks, leaping from boat to boat with machetes and axes in hand. They hacked at ropes and lines, cutting loose those boats now crewed by the dead.

  Somehow, the infection had made its way all the way out here.

  Thaniel turned the binoculars slightly in order to peer at a container ship, where skeletals skittered over decks and toppled cargo boxes; then to the nearest cruise ship, where hundreds of undead faces stared unblinking through portholes. Other corpses shambled onto the ship’s various weather decks or went tumbling over the sides as they reached for some unseen thing in the distance. Aboard the smaller craft, survivors fought the dead in hand-to-hand combat or tried to escape by jumping into the sea. Many who went into the water never came back to the surface. Everywhere between the boats, open-mouthed and bloated groaners bobbed like fishing corks, kept buoyant by the life vests they had worn into death.

  Thaniel turned west, bringing the binoculars to focus on the Federation Navy ships advancing on the flotilla. As they drew closer, massive guns adorning the decks were raised and pivoted until they were directed at the infected vessels. He saw the guns kick back a heartbeat before the sound of their thunder reached him, and the nearest vessel, a large cruise ship, was struck in an explosion that rocked it sideways. The cannons blasted shells until it sank low and was swallowed by the sea. The navy combatants next turned their attention to a nearby cargo ship. They let loose more thunder until that, too, disappeared.

  The one-sided battle continued until all the larger ships disappeared into the deep. Then, when only the smaller vessels remained, landing craft
and smaller ships’ boats emerged from the navy hulls like bees from a hive. They closed the distance to the remaining vessels, firing on the infected craft until they were also swallowed by the waves. Those few uninfected vessels remaining at the end of the battle were boarded by armed sailors who escorted relieved civilians onto the smaller boats that would transport them to the waiting fleet. As he watched, one of the vessels broke away from the swarm and began heading in the direction of the Shiloh.

  Thaniel heard the clatter of metal as the conning tower hatch next to him cracked open. He looked down to see Sharpe emerging from the depths of the hull. Sharpe scaled the ladder and came to stand next to him, his eyes on the incoming boat.

  “Here comes your ride,” the operator said.

  Thaniel simply nodded, so Sharpe continued. “Have any plans for when you get back?”

  “I don’t know. It’s not like I have much to go back to,” Thaniel answered sourly. It had been three days since he had stood in the Shiloh’s control room with a few of the ship’s crew, listening to the chatter over the radio when nuclear weapons facilities across the country were ordered to send forth their destruction.

  Boston, among other cities, had been laid waste.

  Sharpe saw the look on his face and changed the subject. “I’ve just gotten off the horn with Command. They’ve given me a choice.”

  “What kind of choice?”

  “They are pulling all Federation forces back from the coast and the draft has been reinstated; every able body in a uniform and every civilian who can carry a gun, are being amassed in the deserts of the southwest in preparation for a massive offensive against the dead. So, Option A is my boys and I hitch a ride with you on that boat to one of those ships, and then it’s just a quick hop-scotch via helicopter and plane until we touch down in dry, sunny Arizona to join the war effort.”

  “The deserts of the southwest? That’s awfully close to the Frontier. Sure that’s a good idea?”

  Sharpe shrugged, “If the rebels ever decide to come down from the Rockies, it might be a problem. But for now, it’s the dead we have to worry about.”

  “What’s Option B?”

  “Option B is complicated. Command sent two teams up to Neyra’s facility to see if they could retrieve anything that could help us wrap our heads around this pathogen: intel, research, you name it. The first team, Team Six, went dark within an hour of their arrival. And Team Four was lost before they even had boots on the ground. The latter they sent in during a blizzard, airdropped – parachuted in, you understand? – in a fucking blizzard,” he said bitterly. “By all rights, none of them should have made it, but the next morning a PRD was activated.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Personnel Recovery Device. A locator beacon. It means some of the poor bastards might still be alive up there.”

  Thaniel nodded, unsure of what to say.

  “Command isn’t willing to commit any more men to the mission. That and they’re hesitant to keep the facility around to be discovered by the international community, or worse, the Rangers. As long as the facility exists, Neyra could be tied back to Command; and with outbreaks popping up across Europe and South America now, it’s only a matter of time until the finger of blame gets pointed at us. Command will do anything to make sure that doesn’t happen.” Sharpe paused. “But you already knew that.”

  Thaniel thought of his dead friends and his own near-death experience at the hands of the mysterious gunman, “Yeah, I know.”

  “There are discussions of bombing the whole damn island at this point, wiping the facility off the map before it can be discovered.”

  “Sounds like that’s their answer to everything. Kill it or bomb it,” Thaniel answered bitterly.

  “The eventual destruction of Neyra’s facility is inevitable, Briends. But that’s where Option B comes in – I take what’s left of my team, head up to Aptok Island, and see if we can retrieve anything useful before the place is destroyed. Hell, if we can rescue the survivors from Team Four in the process, even better.”

  Thaniel thought for a moment. “Fuck it. I say take Option A. If that’s where the infection came from, then surely nothing good can come out of going up there. Let them bomb it.”

  “It’s more complicated than that, Briends. Some within Command believe there might be a way to create a cure or a vaccine against this thing, but we need Neyra’s work to do that.”

  Thaniel answered with a cynical snort, so Sharpe continued as if he hadn’t heard him. “On the day it happened, on that first day, where were you when it all went to shit?”

  “I already told you. I was cycling to work.”

  “In the rain?”

  Thaniel nodded hesitantly. He had been in the rain. In fact, he recalled, he had been thoroughly soaked on his ride to the office.

  “And yet you didn’t turn into one of those things, Briends. You weren’t the only one, either. A small number of those fleeing the infected zones reported having been exposed to the weather when the infection hit. Those people were there, in the downpour, and they came out of it unscathed and unchanged, just like you.”

  Thaniel thought back to that day on the Common, back to the dark-haired girl in the college sweater who died in his arms. He remembered the few other survivors nearby, standing in the rain just as confused and horrified as he was at the sight of the people mutilating themselves on the ground. “So, you think there’s some sort of immunity from which a vaccine can be created?” he asked.

  Sharpe shrugged. “I’m no scientist. I’m just relaying what I’ve been told. Either way, there are an outspoken few in Command who still believe it’s worth trying to get to Neyra’s facility to look for answers, though they are unwilling to commit the manpower and resources to do so. That leaves me and the boys. If we wish to volunteer, that is.”

  The boat was close now.

  “What will happen to me?” Thaniel asked, nodding at the incoming vessel.

  “Well, Agent Jones, I suppose you have two options yourself.” Sharpe answered, using the alias he’d given Thaniel when he’d been introduced to Captain Perry. The alias had been quick thinking on Sharpe’s part, given the soaking, exhausted state they were all in after escaping the Defiant and boarding the Shiloh. As far as Captain Perry and his crew was concerned, Thaniel – or Kyle Jones – was an intelligence operative assigned to Sharpe’s team.

  “Option A is you’ll be fed and clothed like the rest of those maritime refugees,” he said, nodding to the people being escorted onto the Federation ships in the distance. “Then, most likely, you’ll be drafted into the war effort. That will inevitably mean paperwork, fingerprints, identity checks, and all that other fun bureaucracy that goes along with joining the Forces. Of course, that would mean risking your true identity coming to light.”

  Thaniel snorted. “Just my luck.”

  Sharpe folded his arms across his chest. “It would also mean my ass, for covering for you.”

  Thaniel thought about that for a moment. He had been reported to Command by Sharpe as dead, killed along with his friends aboard the Defiant. It was a move that had earned Sharpe Thaniel’s grudging respect and gratitude. “Hmm. . . Well then, it might be worth it,” he joked.

  “Or,” Sharpe said, ignoring him, “if you’re still interested in chasing your story, you take Option B and come with me.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “They’re going to put a gun in your hands and force you to fight anyway, Briends. Wouldn’t you much rather be fighting with me and the boys? At least with us, it’s an evil you know. With them…” he nodded at the incoming boat and shrugged.

  Thaniel barked a cynical laugh. “You want me to join you on your suicide mission? For what, the promise of a story that almost got me killed, already got my friends killed?”

  “I’ve lost good men in this disaster, Briends,” Sharpe answered heavily. “I’d like to see some justice done for their deaths. It wouldn’t be any skin off my back if those responsible were
brought to light.”

  “What good would it do?” Thaniel countered, giving him a hard look. He pointed to the horizon, where he assumed land lay somewhere beyond. “That world out there no longer cares about justice, Sharpe. All those people care about now is survival. How will my story help them in that endeavor? How will pointing the finger at the ones to blame help them to protect themselves against the monsters at their backs?”

  Sharpe raised his shoulders dismissively. “I’m only laying out the options, Briends. Do what you will. Write it, don’t write it, whatever.”

  Thaniel scoffed. “You sound like Neyra. Besides, what good would I be to you? You guys are operators. I’m just a journalist with no military experience.”

  “Look Briends, I’m not going to argue with you. All I’m saying is, my team is down four men. Now, you somehow managed to survive Boston and you held your own on the Defiant. That must count for something, and I’m in no position to be picky. I need more able bodies and Command is unwilling to provide them.”

  “How would we get there?” Thaniel couldn’t believe he was considering the man’s proposal.

  “Under full speed? The Shiloh here is a Charybdis Class sub – state of the art and first of its kind. From here, it can get us there in less than two days.” Sharpe said, tapping the hull with his foot. “Perry already thinks you’ve been assigned to our unit. It won’t be so suspicious if you decide to come along.”

  “What makes you think we’ll be successful when two of your teams have already failed?”

  It was Sharpe’s turn to bark a cynical laugh. “I’ve got no reason to think we will be successful, Briends. Like I said, we are undermanned as it is. But there might be other operators alive up there, and more importantly, there might be a means to create a vaccine against this thing. That’s all I need to know to make a solid go of it. And if we fail? Then we die trying. Hell, with you dead, at least I won’t have to worry about Command coming down on my ass,” he finished with a wink.