“See for yourself, Trisha, since you’re the best shot here.”
West snorted. “Self-proclaimed best.”
Zuckerberg was already loading one of her mags with the purple-tipped bullets. Max approved of Juno throwing her a bone; new toys were enough to shut her up for a couple of minutes.
“You won’t need a full magazine,” Juno said.
“Six rounds, six targets.” Zuckerberg inserted the magazine, put the weapon to her shoulder, and fired.
The leftmost of the dense foam dummies, so good at absorbing bullets, literally exploded with the loud pop of an M80 firecracker when her round struck it center mass. The team erupted into a babble of astonished fascination as the report of the explosion echoed and faded away.
“Never seen it before, but I like it,” Heinz said.
I have. Max didn’t bother explaining that the explosive 5.56 rounds were based on the exploding fléchettes he’d used in the alien rifle aboard the spacecraft, because he’d told them about it the previous afternoon. He didn’t know how zombies—he’d already taken to calling them zombies, though of the highly animated sort—like test subject six, would react to conventional ammunition, but it had been ineffective on the alien beasts, good for suppression and little else. He was just impressed that the CIA had actually listened to him for once.
Juno recapped the account for him. “Like the fléchettes, these rounds explode an instant after penetration. Very effective, as you can see.”
“How does the ballistic design affect accuracy?” Koontz asked.
“Not appreciably at distances below one hundred-twenty meters.”
As if to provide physical proof, Zuckerberg shot the same dummy—which might have taken a hundred rounds of normal ammunition—in the head. Her two bullets reduced the target to a few lingering scraps of foam rubber clinging to a spindly metal frame.
“She’s right, as always,” Zuckerberg said.
“I should hope so, but familiarize yourselves nonetheless. We have many more targets to shoot at.”
“I take it the forty-five ammo is the same?” Max asked.
“Absolutely.”
“I guess this is why I have to use a carbine instead of my UMP40?” Delorn asked.
“Yes. I had to give mine up too. But I’d say the sacrifice is worth it.”
Everyone took turns blasting targets first with their rifles and then with pistols. Delorn and Koontz shot fairly well with their rifles but sucked hind tit when it came to the .45.
“I’ve never shot one of these fucking cannons before.” Delorn glared at the heavy pistol. “This is Dirty Harry shit. It’s all about nine mil these days.”
“You’re a fool if you think so,” Max said. “And both of you will practice until you’re highly proficient.” He’d never cared for 9mm—too small a projectile with not enough stopping power for his liking—and often wondered why the US military had made it their standard pistol round over the .45.
After everyone had their fun blasting away with the explosive rounds, Juno gathered the team around the hardened chest and revealed the contents.
Holy screamin’ eagle shit.
Before Greytech’s collapse the company had produced a couple of prototype flamethrowers, known as the Mk 42, for the Department of the Army. Max’s team had found and used one of them in Alaska. The Mk 42 was based heavily on the Flammenwerfer 41, a World War II German design with a small nitrogen pressure tank mounted horizontally over the larger fuel tank underneath. The similarities ended there, however. Greytech utilized lightweight titanium construction for the Mk 42, and the operator controlled the weapon with a computer built into the trigger mechanism. Despite its lightweight construction, the weapon was still bulky, its operator saddled with the two tanks on his back. Both of the prototypes had been destroyed in Alaska, but CIA operatives coerced a Greytech researcher in the company’s arms division to surrender the schematics to them.
The one in the box looked to be a modified and improved model. Max would have loved to carry it on the mission—the creatures were susceptible to fire—but he knew he didn’t need it. Certain others did.
“Oh, come to mommy,” Zuckerberg said.
Juno stepped aside and let her remove it from the box.
Don’t get comfy with it, sweetheart. He wasn’t about to allow a crack shot like Zuckerberg to carry the flamethrower, but he let her and the others have their fun after a short training brief and even squirted some napalm downrange himself. As he cooked some rubber, he pondered who should take it: Delorn or Koontz. Koontz seemed the better candidate; he was already comfortable with the computer control pad and its prompts that regulated temperature, fuel mixture, and a host of other functions.
When Max took Juno aside and informed her of his thoughts about the flamethrower, she shook her head. “Delorn,” she whispered. “Koontz has another obligation. He doesn’t need to know that yet, however.”
“Roger that.” At least he’s here for some legitimate reason.
“No, I’ll carry it,” Zuckerberg said. Max turned and saw her arguing with Delorn as they stood over the flamethrower. “You don’t even know how to use it.”
“I’m as good with it as you are,” Delorn said. “Come one, there’s only enough fuel left for like two more shots.”
Zuckerberg snorted. “Yeah, okay. You’ll probably die in transit anyway, so I’m taking it.”
“No,” Max said. “You take it, Delorn.”
“Are you fucking serious, Ahlgren?”
“Yeah, I’m quite fucking serious, Zuckerberg.”
“Step aside, Trish,” Delorn said. “You heard the man.” He wore the same wicked schoolboy grin Red had when he’d run across the prototype.
“Great decision, Ahlgren,” Zuckerberg said. “I can see why they tossed you out of the Marine Corps.”
You don’t know the fucking half of it. “I don’t recall asking for your assessment.”
Zuckerberg growled and then, to Max’s astonishment, actually stamped her foot like a kid throwing a tantrum. “I swear I’d walk the fuck outta here if it wasn’t too late.”
“Well, you’re committed, so stop your goddamn whining. You’re an experienced pro, a former Ranger, at least according to your file. You’ll make do with explosive bullets, same as me.” A timely thought struck him. “But since you like firepower so much, you can carry the SAW.” Somebody has to do it.
“I don’t even want to look at you right now. Just stay out of my way.”
“As far as I possibly can.”
She redirected her fury back on Delorn. “Just remember you’re carrying that weapon because you’re weak.” She looked around once, growled again, then stalked off in the direction of the ladies’ room.
We agree on that much, anyway.
* * *
Max simply flew, and when he wished to turn, dive, or roll he did so as if he’d worn wings his entire life.
I must be miles above the world. Despite the perceived distance he could make out small objects on the ground far below. A distant bird loomed in his vision and took on the dimensions of a passenger jet. I am a hawk, a bird of prey.
Then he smelled blood, enough to make him forget the clumsily flying bird and reroute his course. He couldn’t help thinking he’d made an odd turn. Hawks don’t eat carrion if they have a choice. He looked left and right, and discovered his wings were jet black. Go figure, you’re a raven.
The sun descended in seconds as he flew ever northward. He found himself impervious to the freezing temperatures and enjoyed the liberating feeling of flying high before the full moon, even if he had no idea where he was going.
The honest, natural smell of blood became tainted with a stench of corruption irresistible to his scavenging raven nostrils. Don’t—
Too late. Where an instant before he’d soared, now he skimmed over
the earth at treetop height. A vision of devastation spread before him under the moonlight—metal buildings burned or torn open like tin cans, heavy equipment flipped over and scattered about the landscape, corpses who had suffered a dozen gruesome fates.
Over the ice, past the burning trailer, he swooped into the yawning tunnel. Ice and frozen earth pressed down around him, slowed the beating of his wings. Then a blast of warm air lifted him, and he knew he had arrived.
No. I’ve returned.
On he flew, through caves hewn to right-angle perfection by godlike entities. Overhead lights tracked his flight, illuminating at his approach and dying in his wake. He followed the stench of rotting flesh past cave walls lit in dim orange, and glided over deep chasms where massive beehives glowed in blinding chartreuse and produced a constant, unsettling whine.
He flew low and passed beneath a black caterpillar-like thing walking on a ceiling. Several of the many tentacles sprouting from its armored head futilely slashed at him as he darted away. His acute raven vision noticed a few strands of blond hair protruding from the beast’s round maw.
A column of men accompanied by two women trudged along ahead.
Max pulled up with a flapping of wings and landed on his own shoulder. Not caves or beehives.
“You’ll live, doctor,” Max vowed to the beautiful woman standing before him. “You have my word on that.”
What is your name?
“And you have my trust, Mr. Ahlgren.”
One of his men dangled in midair where two hallways converged, suspended from the ceiling by four slimy black tentacles, each tipped with a hooked black claw the size of a railroad spike. He raised his rifle to fire, yet found himself standing in a dense fog that eclipsed all other vision. Gunshots, shouts, screams echoed from all directions; then all went silent, even his footsteps as he stalked carefully through the mist.
Static crackled briefly in his headset. Comm isn’t possible here. That didn’t stop the drawling voice from the Deep South in his headset: Gable calling Ahlgren. Do you copy? Over.
Gable...Now I remember...
And the strangled guy must be—
A mountain of muscle in combat gear—long red hair streaming from beneath his helmet; bare arms covered in blue Viking tattoos—appeared in the fog. He laughed and said, “I’ve prayed for the aid of several different gods.”
“Red!” Max shouted, but only the man’s laughter remained.
Max turned and followed his guffaws through the fog. You already came this way! He considered this as he walked and found that he didn’t care. Nothing but death at every turn.
He found Red, the bearded and bleeding old man, and the woman—Alexis, that’s her name—standing beneath a cavernous dome formed by hundreds of panes of glass cut to different dimensions and pieced together like a jigsaw puzzle. Glowing holographic computers bathed the chamber in orange light.
The four of them faced a tall thing standing alone on a platform ringed with more computers. “Well, well, the woman who calls herself Dr. Rogers,” the thing hissed. Max tried to focus on it but saw only ineffable evil in its countenance, none of its facial features.
Had he focused harder he might have seen the monster, but his attention shifted to a hologram hovering at the edge of the platform. LT’s group. He watched in horror as they slowly navigated a hallway somewhere within the gigantic vessel. LT and one of the survivors they’d found hoisted Sugar, their hulking machine gunner, between them. What the hell happened to—
The nightmare world aboard the spacecraft went mercifully black yet spared him none of its horrors. Lowest deck, Gable informed him through his headset, over a good deal of static and beeping. Greytech’s fucked us over.
“You want some, Mr. Caterpillar?” Red shouted as he fired a burst from his machine gun. “Come and get it!” He pulled the trigger and squeezed off more lead.
You’re out of ammo, Red.
WARNING: FUSION REACTOR CONTROL ROOM. ACCESS STRICTLY FORBIDDEN! read the sign posted over the door at the far end of the catwalk. He dangled by a few fingers from the same catwalk an instant later, locked in hand-to-hand combat with a huge ant-like creature. One of its serrated appendages rose and fell, and a napalm fire erupted in his right side. He screamed in agony.
“Go home, Max,” Alexis said through the tiny window that separated them. The glow behind her formed a divine halo around her form.
The bridge started to retract toward the far side of the chasm, about thirty feet away. Max jumped for the end of the bridge. Make it. Make it! MAKE IT! He twisted his body and glimpsed the beast hanging in midair, its six-legged form useless. It clumsily flailed at him with its front legs before plummeting into the chasm. The sunlit underworld spun before his eyes as he flipped through the air.
What are the chances?
Max awoke in his spartan quarters with a start, breathing as though he’d just completed a triathlon. More of the usual. The bedside clock read 1114. He’d been asleep just over four hours and knew from hard experience that he would rest no longer, even as the dream faded from memory. If it wasn’t Alaska it was the Crimea, Georgia, Afghanistan—or, worst of all, his dead family.
Shafts of sunlight pried their way around the edges of the window blinds. Must be nice out. Nothing helped him get over the dreams like a strenuous workout. Pump a few sets on the bench, then go for a run. Juno wouldn’t approve of him exercising ahead of the second training night, but she needed to accept that he had his own way of doing things.
He might even find a workout partner. Not Zuckerberg. Too early to deal with her, but perhaps Heinz or West. Those two might know a few ghosts; maybe they’re awake too. He donned running shorts, shoes, and a t-shirt and headed out.
Sawmill snores emanated from behind West’s closed door. So much for him.
Sounds of a more passionate sort—gasps, grunts, squeaking metal, a female moan of pleasure—came from Heinz’s room. Juno? He listened intently, his hand cupped around his ear on the door.
“Harder! Yeah, fuck yeah!” Not Juno, but Zuckerberg.
He shook his head. I should have known.
Someone whistled behind him. Max turned and saw Delorn dressed in boxer shorts and the grime of last night’s training, a towel draped over one shoulder.
“I don’t mean to smile, Max,” he said as he walked past doing exactly that, bound for the men’s showers. “But that’s the worst-kept secret around here.”
9
Through the eyepiece of the electron microscope—powerful, yet primitive by Western standards—Dr. Kwang-Soo Park observed the virus he had created and felt disgusted with himself and his work. Never had he questioned the projects entrusted to his expertise by the Supreme Leader—all were vital to the ongoing revolution that would one day bring equality to the workers of the world.
That he now did so worried him. Anything for the cause? How will unleashing such a plague make the world a better place? He had no idea. With any luck it will never happen.
But Dr. Park was a scientist. He did not believe in prayers or luck, for he’d never had that luxury. Only his hard work kept him alive and valuable to the regime. It kept him sane as well, in spite of his current disturbing project.
He looked up from the eyepiece and turned his attention to the yellow pad on the lab table. He’d begun his career in the era of paper and slide rules and still chose to work that way when time permitted. A slow and inefficient method compared to working on touch-screen tablets, but it kept his mind sharp. Most scientists had forgotten that electronics were a convenience to speed calculations, not a substitute for knowing how to make those calculations.
He consulted a slide rule, added the figure to the equation he was working on. Regardless of the uncertain future, his work would continue. He knew no other way forward.
Several minutes later he arrived at the figure he’d sought. Time had grown short,
however, so he moved to his computer and began entering data. Though he prudently feared the wrath of General Moon, the man didn’t have him as cowed as he believed. Park worked daily on the biological weapon, as ordered, but spent more time on the longevity treatment for the Supreme Leader.
He had lied to Moon, of course, about having the treatment ready on time. That would simply not be possible. The sampling would go on as planned, however, if the Americans failed in their mission. As a stopgap to present to the Supreme Leader, Park worked diligently to transform the substance into something inert and non-toxic. The Supreme Leader would be disappointed with the results on the test subject, yet he would still be alive, and Park would work on the real longevity elixir in the meantime.
It can be done. Of this he was certain. But hopefully I won’t need to do it.
The thought made him pause. He’d never shirked responsibilities or been disingenuous with his superiors, even during his darkest days of alcoholism. To do so now, even with the most noble of intentions, made him feel like a scoundrel. There is nothing left to lose. Remember that.
If the Americans succeeded, he would likely die. Even if they tried to assist him in escaping, he doubted he possessed the stamina to keep up with veteran commandos. Park might live if they failed, but he wasn’t counting on it. If transforming men into furious beasts is all I have left to live for, then I have outlived my usefulness to the world. He could only hope the Americans would succeed in destroying the virus. He cared little for his own fate, though he still had one more essential task to perform.
The lock on the lab door clicked open and snapped his attention away from the computer screen. Kyung-Seok Yoon, his chief research assistant, stepped into the lab, the door closing automatically behind him.
“Working in the dark again, I see,” Yoon said as he approached. Though small in stature, Yoon was a giant in the laboratory, one of the most gifted young scientists Dr. Park had ever worked with.
“Light is destructive; dark is preservative,” Park responded.
Undead Page 9
