Max heaved the carcass at the human zombie, which had reached the landing a few stairs below. Another bullet head. As on the spacecraft, they seemed to be the finest bred of all the beasts. Even on its awkward spade claw, it had negotiated the stairs faster than Max—until two hundred pounds of dead zombie dog struck it in the chest and took it down.
Fuck this. Max unclipped a high-explosive grenade from his vest, pulled the pin, and tossed it at the zombie as it threw aside the dead dog. He then ducked and stuffed himself into a corner on the stairway landing, facing away from the explosion that rocked the stairwell three seconds later.
The concussion deafened him as the overpressure tore at his uniform. He stood and turned, saw the zombie lying still and broken upon the landing. 0426. No time to check if it had died. Max grabbed the shotgun and started up the stairs, attempting to clear the weapon as he went, which proved fruitless—a plastic shotgun shell had wedged solidly askew within the receiver. He dropped the shotgun on the stairs and reached for his rifle, then reconsidered. Save your ammo, you only have half a mag left. He drew his pistol instead. Should have taken Juno’s ammo, if she had any left.
The ringing in his ears abated as his hearing returned. He thought he spotted a closed door above through the grating, and sure enough the stairs terminated three landings up.
He threw open the door on a hallway of plush red carpeting paneled in gleaming ebony. The polished wooden double doors down the hall to his right looked familiar and confirmed his location. Top floor, command center. To his left the hallway ran about forty feet before turning right, a few wooden doors sparsely placed in the walls. Faint shouts in Korean seemed to emanate from everywhere, yet the hall was presently empty.
Four minutes. Attaining the surface now seemed only the beginning of his struggle. He knew the lobby would be crawling with soldiers, as would the grounds. How the hell do I get out of here? An idea struck him, and he immediately decided it was his best option. Just hope they didn’t go up there.
Max turned left and ran. Three doors lined the left wall before the passage turned. He tried to open the third door and found it locked, so he stepped back and fired an explosive round into the wood between the brass knob and the jamb. The ebony shattered to splinters, and the door swung open a few inches.
Max barged into a sitting room of red velvet wallpaper, fine leather furniture, and Persian rugs spread over polished hardwood floors. A massive picture window on the far side of the room looked out over the complex, and through it Max saw soldiers moving about in the gloom of predawn and spotlights. They’d even built a machine gun nest out of sandbags. Shit. This wouldn’t be easy, but he hadn’t expected it to be.
He saw a kitchen counter and a tiled backsplash through a half-open door to his left, while the door to the right stood closed. This time he opted to shoot the doorjamb before checking to see if it was locked. He then put his shoulder into the door and charged into a bedroom.
One shot rang out, the bullet finding only the wall behind him. Max focused on the shooter—a lithe young Korean woman cowering behind an exquisitely carved dresser. She fired once at him as he charged but missed by a few feet; then her nervous fingers fumbled and dropped the pistol. Max bashed her in the temple with his pistol barrel, showing remarkable restraint for such a dire situation. She dropped in a heap to the carpet, clad only in a red negligee as it turned out.
Max ran to the window, threw up the sash, and looked out, spotting what he’d been hoping for—the roof access ladder was a mere four feet away. The soldiers below in the sandbag nest had their MG pointed down the building toward a back exit at ground level.
Here goes nothing...
Something struck him in the left shoulder with a tremendous force that nearly knocked him out of the window. Shot. From leg to shoulder, the left side of his body bitched in intense agony.
“Don’t move!” barked a voice spiced with a heavy Korean accent.
Max turned slowly and focused on the stocky man in the green service uniform with its golden shoulder boards and gleaming medals. General Moon wore a furious scowl that put a slight crinkle in his repulsive facial scar.
“You and your accomplices are through,” Moon said. “Now drop your pistol, scum.”
Max considered his order. Moon stood several feet away with his smoking pistol trained on him. Though the general was several inches shorter, Max knew Moon had the physical power to take him on, especially in his wounded condition. He’ll kill you, but you were gonna die anyway.
“No,” Max raised his pistol.
Before he could bring it to bear, Moon fired again. This time his bullet struck the Glock and knocked it from his grasp. The pistol bounced once on the windowsill before it dropped outside and plummeted to the earth
Moon growled a guttural chuckle. “You lose, John Wayne.”
“You’re the one who’s done. This place will be a memory in a few minutes.”
“Alas, you are correct. A car awaits us downstairs. You will have the honor of meeting the Supreme Leader, after which you will confess your crimes to the world and expose your capitalist leaders for the ruthless, bellicose pigs that they are!”
Now Max laughed. “Yeah, I’ll confess, don’t worry about that. I’m sure the world would love to know what went on here.”
“Of course they will—we were conducting groundbreaking research in children’s medicine. You and your leaders will answer for destroying this place and meddling in our affairs. Consider yourself the next Gary Powers, although I doubt the Supreme Leader will ever send you home.” He followed with a laugh appropriate for an evil genius with the upper hand. “Now, reach for your rifle slowly and disarm yourself. You’re bleeding to death, and the Supreme Leader awaits.”
“You tell that dwarf to go fuck his mother.”
Moon’s eyes bulged, and he roared in fury, “Then I’ll bring him your head!”
Max lunged for Moon as the general fired, a near miss that flew over his head and out the open window. With the left half of his body practically out of commission, Max’s right arm and leg took up the slack. He plowed into Moon, his right shoulder just below the belt line, and felt him topple like the running backs he used to smash in college.
They fell to the floor in a heap and grappled. When Moon tried to shoot him in the face, Max latched onto his right wrist and smashed it to the floor. The move awoke ineffable pain in his left shoulder the likes of which he hadn’t experienced in a long time, but it was worth it. Moon dropped his pistol, which slid across the hardwood floor and under the bed.
Though down, Moon was far from out. When Max went for his KA-BAR, Moon countered by slugging him hard in his wounded shoulder. This bought him some time, which he used to drive his knee up into Max’s crotch. Max’s vision exploded into blackness and shooting stars, and he felt his vitality fading. He would have easily bested Moon if he’d been uninjured—the general probably hadn’t fought a real hand-to-hand battle in years—but in his current state it was no contest.
Moon rolled and threw Max off him; then, with surprising agility for a thickset man, he hopped to his feet and stood over him. He pulled a pocket pistol from within his uniform jacket and pointed it at Max’s face, his own wearing the victor’s contemptuous glare of triumph.
“You will die, but I shall become immortal,” Moon said. “the Supreme Leader will be most pleased with his prize.”
Max hadn’t time or energy to contemplate his imminent death. The report of the shot cracked off the sumptuous wood paneling, the last sound he would ever hear.
General Moon’s facial expression went from deadly assured to dead incredulity as his squat body twitched once, jolted by an unseen force. His mouth dropped open in one of the dumbest expressions Max had ever witnessed. He twisted as he fell and landed dead on his side next to Max.
Smoke curled from the barrel of the sergeant’s pistol as he stood somberl
y in the doorway. The left sleeve of his green uniform was shredded and soaked through with blood, evidence he’d survived a zombie encounter.
Max had no words. And he didn’t need any. The sergeant nodded at him once—the respect due a man who had saved his life despite being on the opposing side. He then turned and disappeared from the doorway.
“I’d say we’re even,” Max said to the empty doorway.
He rose slowly and checked his watch: 0429. The next two minutes would decide if the sergeant had saved him in vain.
22
Max crept to the window and peered out into the predawn shadows. A burst of rifle fire blew out the window glass, forcing him to duck below the sill. Moon and the sergeant had given away his position with their gunshots. Had the sergeant saved his skin for nothing? Max couldn’t make the jump to the ladder under heavy fire, especially if they turned the machine gun on him.
A man bellowed a chain of harsh, rapid-fire nonsense down below. Though he didn’t understand the words, Max recognized the universal voice of field command. He almost shuddered from relief when he peeked over the sill and saw the sergeant shouting orders at the machine gun crew as he pointed toward a truck waiting in the distance. The rifleman who’d fired at Max still had his weapon on the window as his team leader listened to the orders; then the sergeant shouted a few words that made the crew forget all about Max. The rifleman and another soldier jumped over the sandbag barrier as if their asses were aflame and sprinted toward the truck, while the gun crew began hastily disassembling the MG from its tripod. The sergeant yelled at them again, gesticulated once more to the truck, then unleashed what must have been—if Max knew his sergeants—a profane flogging of promises that made them forget the gun and run for their lives. They fear him more than the bomb.
Though he didn’t have it timed down to the second, Max knew the bomb would detonate around 0431. He had a minute left now; no more than two. He cleared the last few shards of jagged glass from around the window before climbing onto the sill. Without a second thought he made the short leap to the ladder. His right hand caught hold of a rung and latched on, and a lightning bolt of pain shot up his leg when his left foot found purchase on another rung. He ignored the continued throbbing of his wounds and started climbing, reaching the roof in a matter of seconds.
His gamble paid off—the gear they’d discarded after the jump still lay in piles by the air conditioning unit. Thank God for general arrogance. Like any general, Moon didn’t clean up after anyone, and his troops had been too busy to retrieve gear from the roof. Why bother, when the Americans were certain to die down below?
Max located his HAHO rig, pulled his KA-BAR, and severed the suspension lines on the open parachute. A glance at his watch—0431:14—quickened his movements. First he removed his backpack and repositioned it on his chest; then he gritted his teeth and growled as he shrugged his left arm through the parachute harness.
Just think what landing will be like.
He stopped thinking about it, couldn’t think about it, and concentrated instead on getting properly buckled in. A moderate wind, cold and steady, blew across the rooftop toward the beckoning cliff beyond the roof’s edge. It would help him to take flight and carry him away from the complex, albeit in the opposite direction from the coast. Worry about that later. He took a deep breath and tensed in anticipation of making his run.
His helmet smashed the concrete when he fell forward in a heap to the rooftop, which shook as if in the grip of a mighty earthquake, accompanied by a rumble that marked an end to North Korea’s excursion into longevity projects and zombie making. The world seemed to shift a full ninety degrees onto its side for a few seconds before righting itself. The dull bass rumbling continued as the subterranean complex began to collapse from the bottom up. Max knew little about engineering and architecture but figured the building itself might topple in the next few seconds.
He stood and staggered across the quaking roof, as the concrete fissured in several places before his eyes. Fuck it, go! He ran the last few steps, leaped to the low parapet, found it with his right foot, and pushed off with all his strength into the nothingness below.
He deployed his backup parachute a second later; the wind filled it and quickly arrested his decent, the jolt of the opening chute causing his ribs to feel like they were on fire. He rode the felicitous current away from the building and listened as the rumbling from the complex continued.
Several military trucks and jeeps moved in a ragged column down a winding road of hairpin turns into the mist-shrouded valley below. One of the trucks had taken a turn too quickly and rolled over into a ditch. A few antlike soldiers ran down the road from the wreckage in their haste to get away.
Even with the aid of the wind, he soon began to drop. The saw-toothed ridges of mountains to the left and right framed the clouded valley below. A few seconds later he entered the fog. Not good. He felt the chill of condensation, could barely see his feet through the mist, and realized he wouldn’t see the ground until it rose up suddenly to meet him. The ground, if I’m lucky. He might just as easily get hung up in a tree, splash down in a pond, or crash land on some citizen’s roof.
The Fates had been with him so far, but he’d used up a lot of favors on this mission. I’ll ask for a few more if I survive this landing.
Terra firma rose from the mists like an enveloping blanket set to smother him. He glimpsed towering trees in brilliant fall regalia to the right. A shallow brook ran to the left; its wide, sandy bank, clear of obstructions, beckoned to him. Nice, was all he had time to think as he descended the last few feet to the sand. A few brown puddles along the bank indicated he might land even softer than expected.
He touched down with his right leg and rolled, felt his ankle twist as the muck swallowed his boot. After rolling out, he sat up in the boggy sands and took stock of his situation. He probed his throbbing ankle through the sock—the muck had sucked his boot off—and took it for a mild sprain, the least of his worries at the moment. Aside from that he had suffered no new injury. Brown slop covered him from head to heel, and he immediately checked his rifle for operational readiness. No muck had befouled its receiver, though a good bit clogged the suppressor, which he removed and tossed into the stream. No reason not to, the suppressor had blown a long time ago.
His grenade launcher hadn’t fared so well. The impact of rolling out from the jump had ripped the M-203’s tube from the slide rails. Always a glitch somewhere...
He stood, slogged his way through the muck and put on his boot. He laced it as tight as he could stand, the ankle pain competing with the throbbing in his thigh and shoulder. Clean up this mess. He removed his harness, wrapped it up in the parachute and carried it to the woods a few meters away, where he buried the rig beneath a pile of fallen leaves. His imprints in the sand were telltale marks, but any aerial search of the valley would have to wait until the fog cleared.
He had time to spare and used it wisely. First he stripped out of his muddy black combat uniform. Before donning the spare suit of woodland camo in his backpack, brought along for just such an emergency, he tended to his wounds, bandaging first the katana slash with gauze and pad from his first aid kit. The amount of blood soaking the left leg of his discarded trousers attested that he was a good pint low, perhaps even more. He couldn’t see his shoulder wound—the bullet had entered from the rear—but the round had lodged deep in the joint and caused massive swelling. All he could do was slap a thick adhesive bandage on it and hope for the best.
After that he wolfed down a couple of protein bars and downed an energy drink. He sucked down the rest of the water in his camel back but still felt thirsty, another sign serious of blood loss. Yet he had to move soon; he might fall asleep from exhaustion if he didn’t. He buried his trash and discarded items with the parachute and prepared to move out.
He got his bearings utilizing a laminated map of the area, then entered the memorized coord
inates for the cache into his GPS before he headed downstream through the cover of the hardwood trees. As the crow flew, the cache was located about forty kilometers away. I need a vehicle. Military would be preferable, but civilian would suffice. He also needed to cross the stream before he reached the small town a couple of kilometers down its course. Attempting to wade across at the landing point would have been foolish. Though it looked shallow enough to wade across, he feared getting stuck in the mud midstream. Just hope it gets rocky at some point.
Max had many deadly variables to consider but felt pretty positive about his current situation. He had stealth, and the fog worked in his favor. The North Koreans would have only the vaguest idea where he might have landed—if they’d even seen him jump—and they couldn’t mount a helicopter search until the fog burned off. He didn’t know if the army had tracking dogs at their disposal, but he planned on being long gone before any canines took up the chase.
Less than a kilometer downstream he crossed the water via a rocky riffle. Through the trees in the distance a vehicle passed on a roadway, which gave him an idea. He trekked to the road through a couple hundred meters of dense woodland cover. Spotting no vehicles, he darted across the pavement into more thick cover and continued to march with the road about ten meters to his right. To the left, the land sloped upward toward a rocky ridge. The land rolled, freshets cut the hillside, and the going was rough and slow. But they won’t be looking for me here. If the North Koreans had a clue where he had landed, they would expect him to stay in the flat plain of the river bottom where he might move faster.
He continued on for some time like this and noticed to his dismay that the fog was slowly lifting as the sun climbed from behind peaks and clouds. Full daylight would soon be upon him; he didn’t want to be on foot when that happened. As if he needed another reason to steal a vehicle, a claxon resembling an air raid siren sounded in the town across the stream. North Koreans in the area would awake, turn on their televisions, and be alerted of the fugitive American stalking the woods in their midst—a ruthless, bloodthirsty maniac who had destroyed a hospital devoted to children’s medical research. Lock your doors and hide your daughters. Call this number if you notice anything suspicious.
Undead Page 21
