Masks of Ash

by Adrian J. Smith

  Nine

  Anchorage, Alaska

  Ryan quickened his pace, weaving through the potted plants jammed together on the narrow balcony. Some of the offices they passed were empty and cast in darkness, while others were bright, with evidence of ash remains. A smaller one had a couple of Siphons trapped inside. They banged bloody fists on the glass as he slid past. It was the cloudy eyes, always the eyes, that creeped him out the most. Ever since Koyasan and his first encounter with the creatures, the way the eyes appeared sightless, but still followed your movements, haunted his sleep.

  Below in the main concourse, Siphons had gathered in a large mass. Many more than Ryan had ever seen in one place at one time. Dozens, maybe hundreds. He had given up trying to count.

  When he reached the end of the balcony, he tried the keycard in the next door. The door buzzed but remained locked.

  “Dammit,” Ryan said. “Step back.” He squeezed his trigger and fired at the small window on the door, shattering it into a thousand tiny pieces. Booth wasted no time and yanked it open. Ryan took up point and sprinted down the stairs, past the airport security, the x-ray machines and duty-free shops. Some of these had been looted too. The shelves that normally held liquor were empty, apart from some hipflasks and giant bottles of champagne.

  “That way!” Allie shouted above the chasing shrieks.

  Faster they ran. Sam, ears flat against his head, tongue hanging out the side of his mouth, sprinted ahead, growling, his nose pointed slightly in the air. Ryan skidded to a stop. More Siphons blocked their path, strangely clothed, like the creatures on the concourse. The Nameless sprang into action, mowing them down as they shrieked and moved toward them. Ryan went for their legs, waited until they hit the floor, then fired the kill-shot to their heads.

  He looked around, his eyes settling on gate five. The airbridge was extended to their getaway plane but, like the concourse and the gates, Siphons had flooded it.

  “Shit,” Booth said, dropping another creature. “Which way now?”

  Allie hustled to the giant windows and swiveled her head left and right. “The baggage hold is open.” She paused to shoot a Siphon that was dragging itself toward her. “Through there.” Allie gestured to a door marked Maintenance next to the airbridge, beyond which was a set of narrow metal stairs usually used by the engineering crew.

  Sam snarled and threw himself at an advancing group. He clawed, bit and tore at their throats. The Siphons ignored him. They only had eyes for the humans.

  Sofia reached the door first and kicked it open. “Clear.”

  The Nameless formed a semi-circle. Centimeter by centimeter, they backpedaled to the now-open door. Ryan kept firing three-round bursts. His head snapped up at a more human sound from the security area. Ebony’s red hair shone under the fluorescent lighting. She jumped up onto an x-ray machine and viciously kicked a Siphon in a face. Then she was down and sprinting toward the Nameless, charging through like she was playing in the Superbowl. Siphon after Siphon bounced off her rushing body. Within seconds, she burst through the open door and slammed it shut.

  The crisp Alaskan air prickled Ryan’s exposed hands and face as the Siphons pounded on the floor-to-ceiling glass, smearing mucus and saliva over the surface. Now that they had a chance to breathe, everyone reloaded and checked their gear.

  “That was a bit hairy,” Ryan said.

  “Reminded me of that time in Istanbul. That was hairy too,” Booth said. “The Turkish men especially.”

  Ryan groaned and headed across the tarmac toward the Boeing 737. He snapped his head around as a powerful engine sounded, searching for the source, but spotted nothing.

  The engine sound was joined by a second. Ryan glanced over his shoulder and looked at the giant windows. In the reflection were two light gray Cadillac Escalades, cruising perpendicular to the terminal.

  “Get down,” Ryan warned. The Nameless dove behind the baggage train, sliding out of sight.

  The lead SUV drove past, windows down. Ryan peered through his scope. “Black Skulls,” he muttered.

  “Yamada was right. They’re everywhere,” Cal said.

  As the second SUV came level with the baggage train, Sam growled and sprang forward. Ebony lunged for the dog but missed him by millimeters. Sam growled again and sprinted at the vehicle. The Black Skulls screeched to a stop and gunfire erupted, smacking into the concrete around the dog. Either the Black Skulls were not expecting anyone or were too arrogant because the driver poked his head out and laughed at Sam. Ryan ignored the driver and, focusing on the passenger sitting directly behind, fired a three-round burst. Two of his bullets struck home, one taking a chunk out of the passenger’s neck and the other his lower jaw, snapping his head back.

  Immediately, Ryan moved forward and fired at the windshield, punching neat little holes. The vehicle lurched forward a couple of meters and drifted to a stop.

  Ryan looked at the driver, who had been laughing a few seconds earlier. Sam was still tearing at his throat, ripping out muscle and tissue. Blood pumped over the dog’s snout as it pulled and tugged.

  “Hostiles on the left,” Cal warned.

  The first SUV reversed, tires screeching. As it hurtled toward The Nameless, the doors were flung open. Round after round zipped around them. The Black Skulls kept firing as they slowly exited the vehicle, taking cover behind it.

  Allie cried out, clutching her arm, and dropped her rifle. She wedged herself behind the baggage train’s oversized wheels and shielded Keiko. As one, The Nameless advanced, Cal and Ryan on the right, Booth and Sofia on the left. While Sofia and Cal lay down covering fire, Ryan and Booth dove to the concrete. Ryan tutted. Instead of sheltering behind the wheel like Allie, the Black Skulls had left their legs exposed. He squeezed his trigger, aiming first for kneecaps, then heads. Two minutes later, it was over.

  Booth edged forward. “Clear.”

  “Clear,” Cal and Sofia echoed.

  Silence returned to the airport. Ryan signaled to the others that he was moving forward.

  Two Black Skulls lay on their backs, blood gurgling from their mouths. Their visible wounds were healing, thanks to the nanites, but slowly.

  After a discussion back on the Nimitz, The Nameless had decided to exchange their ammo for hollow points to give maximum damage. The slow healing was all the evidence Ryan needed to know this had been a wise decision.

  Ryan edged around the SUV and crouched next to the first Black Skull.

  “Who the fuck are you guys?” the Black Skull mumbled.

  “I’ll tell you if you tell me something. Quid pro quo.”

  “Quid pro what-now?”

  Ryan glanced at his nametag. Chadwick. “It means a favor for a favor.”

  “Why would I help you fuckers?”

  Ryan pushed his knee into Chadwick’s elbow, earning a scream. He pulled the taser baton from his satchel and placed it against the injured man’s neck. “Tell me why there are so many of the creatures inside the terminal, and I’ll let you be.”

  “Fuck you, man. I’m not telling you shit.”

  Ryan pushed his knee harder, earning another scream.

  “All right, man. Shit. After the First Wave, there were freaks everywhere. Sergeant said to take them to the terminal and lock them in.”

  Ryan pushed his knee harder against the elbow. Another scream. “What else?”

  The Black Skull sniggered. “You’re all dead, man. They’re going to bomb the shit out of this place. All the way down the coast.”

  Cal waved, getting his attention. “Leave it. There could be more on the way.”

  Ryan nodded before returning his attention to Chadwick. “When?”

  “Fuck you.” Chadwick spat out globs of blood.

  Ryan zapped Chadwick with his taser. The man’s body convulsed. The Black Skull wasn’t going to divulge any more information no matter how much he was tortured.

  Cal stepped over and shot Chadwick in the head. “Can we go now?”

  She shot the
other Black Skulls, stopping his response. He stared at her, shocked at her callousness. Maybe her three years working for Offenheim had changed her more than he’d realized?

  He looked back at Chadwick. They’re going to bomb the shit out of this place. All down the coast.

  More questions. Is that what Yamada had meant about clearing unwanted cities?

  “In here,” Allie said. Still cradling her arm, she directed The Nameless onto the baggage conveyor and into the plane. Once they were all safely inside the hold, she kicked the door closed and ushered them to the back. “Galley is above us.”

  Booth put his hand on an access panel. “Hold up,” Ryan said. “If there were Siphons coming down the airbridge, maybe some are in the cabin?”

  Cal grabbed the panel and pushed up. “I’ll check.” Leading with her gun, she stuck her head and shoulders through. After sixty seconds, she jumped up and pulled her legs through.

  “Anything?” Ryan said.

  Cal’s head appeared. “Multiple hostiles.”

  As if to confirm her words, a blood-curdling shriek pierced the hold.

  Ryan grabbed Cal and dragged her back down. “How many?”

  “At least twenty.”

  “Should we shoot our way to the cockpit and clear the plane?” Booth asked.

  Allie shook her head. “And risk putting holes in the fuselage?”

  “Is it possible to reach the cockpit from here?” Ryan said.

  “Not anymore, thanks to hijackers.”

  Ryan’s mind raced, running through the possibilities. He could probably take out two quickly, three at a stretch. The same for the rest of The Nameless. Ebony might be able to kill five or six. The major risk was noise; the Siphons focused on it, especially on the shrieks other Siphons emitted. They were drawn to noise like bees to nectar.

  Silence descended, the only sounds coming from the Siphons searching inside the cabin.

  “Dammit. I should have had a backup plan,” Ryan said.

  “I did see something odd when I was searching,” Allie said. She shrugged. “It stuck out because it was weird.”

  “What?” Booth asked.

  “CL-415s. Water bombers. Planes used for fighting fires.”

  “The ones that dump thousands of liters of water?”

  “The very same. They’re about two hundred meters west, parked to one side.”

  “What do you guys think?” Booth said.

  Ryan turned over the options. Maybe it was all they had. Surely there was something better – another jet, preferably. “What’s the range?”

  “Around two thousand kilometers. We’d have to refuel somewhere in Canada. And they’re slow. If I remember correctly, cruising speed of three hundred kilometers per hour. That means, with a fuel stop, fourteen hours to Portland.” Allie winced, cradling her arm. “Maybe fifteen hours.”

  “Too long,” Cal said, saying exactly what Ryan was thinking.

  If Offenheim and his Black Skulls had recaptured Zanzi, fourteen hours was way too long. On top of that, there was the plan to bomb the cities. Ryan groaned. The frustration grated on his nerves. He hated being cut off like this. No radio contact. No phones. No internet. Their only option was to get home.

  Silence returned. Never had he been plagued by so much indecision. Normally he was confident and assured. Now, every step of the way, he was hampered by OPIS and its agents.

  Ryan strained his ears. He could hear a faint sound. Machine gun fire. Small bursts. With care, he pushed open the hold door and risked a peek outside. Seeing nothing, he emerged slowly, like a butterfly from its chrysalis, and dropped to the runway. He shouldered his M4 and scanned the vicinity. The water bombers were the first thing he saw. Painted bright red and yellow, they were hard to miss. Pivoting, he sought the source of the gunfire. Three black Humvees were on the far side of the airfield, just inside the fence. They were chasing down a pack of Siphons, skidding the vehicles. If they turned back this way, it wouldn’t take them long to spot The Nameless. Problem was, that direction was where all the other commercial jets were.

  He poked his head back inside. “Black Skulls hunting Siphons.”

  “I thought they’d be looking for us,” Cal said, and shrugged. “Did they see you?”

  “I doubt it. They’re heading away, toward the Pacific. It won’t be long, though. They’ll come this way soon, see all the men we killed and the Siphons we stirred up. We have two options: hide in here and hope they don’t find us, or take a water bomber, keep it low, and hug the coast home.”

  “Water bomber,” everyone said.

  Once again, Ryan took point and darted back toward the terminal. This time, he stayed away from the windows. He kept his eyes in front, trusting his team to do their jobs. He pressed them hard, fearful of the Black Skulls growing bored and turning around. They made it to the CL-415 with no further incident.

  As soon as they reached the planes, Allie ran around each one, flicking her eyes all over them. She pointed at the plane on the right. “This one. Here, take away the chocks. I’ll get her started. Booth, I need a co-pilot.”

  Five minutes later, they were inside the CL-415, the twin prop engines humming. It sounded like the Greyhound they had flown off the USS Nimitz. Long bench seats lined the narrow cabin. It was going to be a long, uncomfortable flight home. Beggars can’t be choosers and all that.

  Allie looked over her shoulder as the plane began to taxi away from the hangar. “Hold onto something. This is going to be bumpy.”

  Ten

  Portland, Oregon

  “You think you can do it?” Lisa said.

  “I’m confident,” Zanzi said.

  “We have to time it perfectly. You take out window guy, then I’ll enter the room and kill the last man.”

  “The door’s locked, though.”

  Lisa grinned. “Not for long.” She pointed to the opposite wall.

  The pair had backtracked to the office to plan out the rescue. Next to the light switches was a board. Dozens of keys hung from clearly labeled hooks.

  Janitor… Sports equipment… Art… Boiler room.

  “What I wouldn’t give for a decent comms unit right about now,” Lisa said. “Okay, we’ll do this the old-fashioned way. Get into position and click the talk button on your radio. Keep the volume down. When I click back twice, that’s the green light.”

  “Got it.”

  “Good.” Lisa grasped Zanzi’s wrist. “You did the right thing going after these guys.”

  “Thanks. I couldn’t let it go knowing they were out here.”

  “You’re preaching to the choir. Go.”

  Zanzi looked down the hallway. Not that she was worried about Cooper and Sawyer. Those idiots were so loud, she and Lisa would hear the pair coming long before they saw them. She was more worried about being surprised by Rabids. The school was a maze of classrooms, janitor’s closets and lockers. There were plenty of places the creatures could be.

  Seeing it was clear, she jogged back out the front entrance and circled behind the trees lining the car park. She slid onto the bed of a landscape contractor’s F350. Keeping her head down and movements slow, she rested the M4 on the side of the truck. The landscaper had stacked bags of potting mix in neat piles on the truck bed. Zanzi spent a few minutes placing them around her, then scoped the boiler room. It didn’t take her long to spot the ratty man looking out the boiler room window. His head was turned, focused on the main road leading to the school. Through the scope, his features were visible. His jaw and cheekbones stood out, as did his too-close eyes. His tongue nipped out like a snake’s. Zanzi shivered involuntarily. Cooper/Sawyer, whichever one he was, gave her the creeps.

  She clicked the talk button once and flicked off her safety. Seconds later, Lisa clicked the signal for a green light. Without thinking about the life she was about to end – she didn’t want to give herself any lingering doubts – Zanzi squeezed the trigger. Cooper/Sawyer staggered back and collapsed as the round thumped into the center of his
chest, just below the sternum. With the echo of her round still ringing in her ears, she bolted up and took off at a sprint, running diagonally to the window, then slammed against the school building. Next, she turned the volume back up on her radio.

  “Target’s down,” Lisa’s voice hissed.

  “Copy that.”

  “Get back in here.”

  It was the stale stench of urine that hit Zanzi as she entered the boiler room. The children were huddled together on dirty blankets. She flicked her eyes from one grubby kid to the next and spotted the girl she was looking for. Just like Lisa had said: five years old and an exact copy of the girl in the bakery. She crouched next to her.

  “Hey. It’s okay. I’m Zanzi. Your brother and sister sent me.”

  The girl blinked, but no words came. She twisted her stained T-shirt in her hands. Zanzi checked on the ratty man she had shot. There was no pulse. Was he completely free of nanites? She pulled her knife free and debated where to stab him to make sure.

  “After,” Lisa said. She was untying the adults from the metal pipes. “Give me a hand with them.”

  The adults were in a bad way, their bodies covered in bruises, cuts and cigarette burns. The first one to be freed, a balding man, sagged as they uncuffed him. “Water,” he murmured.

  The next was a female, young, perhaps late twenties, it was hard to tell, with long dark hair. Her face was swollen from a multitude of welts and bruises. Her teeth were bloody, and her lips were split. Zanzi helped her to a chair. Instead of drinking the offered water, the woman pressed it against her puffy eye, which was black and purple, and nearly swollen shut.

  The last adult was another man. Next to his foot, a metal plate leaned against the pipework. That must have been the source of the noise. Clever. The man had brown curly hair and ears that stuck out like cup handles. His breathing came in short gasps.

  “Inhaler,” he wheezed. “Pocket.”

  Zanzi fished out his inhaler and handed it to him. The man struggled to raise his hands to his mouth but managed to take a couple of weak puffs. He wheezed a few more times before his breathing settled.