The Revered (The Earth Epsilon Wars, Book 3)

by Terrance Mulloy

  Copyright © 2020 Terrance Mulloy

  Tiny Empire Pty Ltd. All Rights Reserved.

  This publication is a work of fiction. All characters, locations, and events are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, without written permission from the author.

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  Contents

  Quote

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Thank you for reading

  Also by Terrance Mulloy

  About the Author

  “Remember the future and never look back.”

  ~ Carol Leeming

  One

  The runways of the Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport lay dead and abandoned to the dust and wind.

  The skeletal remains of commercial airliners sat lopsided on taxiways and aprons, strangled by thick weeds that had broken through the rotting concrete decades ago. What remained of the airport’s maintenance hangars were nothing more than mounds of twisted steel and rubble. Discarded passenger luggage blew across the deserted runways like tumbleweeds, and somewhere out there, where the buckled asphalt met the murky banks of the Potomac River, a rhythmic thrum grew louder.

  The Piasecki X-49 Speed Hawk lanced through the fractured D.C. skyline, descending rapidly towards the airport, its twin-engines roaring against the choking winds.

  The belly inside the chopper was bathed in the iridescent glow of ultra-violet light. The dramatic lighting was not for any type of stylistic effect, but rather, for safety. The virus particles that many suspected were still swirling around outside could not survive under ultra-violet light. With its molecules and genetic material smashed, the chopper’s belly would be an impossible environment for it to replicate.

  Nevertheless, Ally Reeves wasn’t taking any chances - especially when conducting a treacherous supply run like this one. Wearing a mishmash of looted tactical gear and shielding that had been acquired over time, she looked out at the inhospitable yawn of the deserted city, her eyes coiled with unnerving focus.

  Technically the city was not deserted. Far from it. Many living things still lurked down there in the craggy darkness. Hungry and horrible things that defied belief - even for someone who had mostly grown up in this world.

  But it had not always been this way.

  Her grandparents often spoke of the lush-green planet they remembered before the Wraith invasion, reminiscing with a mix of sadness and terror. A terror of what the future held. A terror Ally clearly remembered hearing the first rumors of, until news reports began to flood her home each night, chronicling an outbreak of what was dubbed, the Scourge. While the initial symptoms mirrored that of Ebola, the incubation period was virtually non-existent. Within the first few hours of infection, victims complained of suffering terrible fevers, accompanied by headaches, blackouts, diarrhea, blindness, and severe hemorrhaging.

  Those symptoms soon gave way to something much more insidious.

  Each night, Ally would watch the news anchors, their voices shifting from solemn to helpless, as they reported on death tolls that continued to climb throughout the Beltway and into the surrounding states. Government and health officials were grossly unprepared, caught off-guard, and unable to create any effective protocols, let alone a vaccine. Self-imposed quarantine and social distancing laws also did little to stop the aggressive transmission rates.

  Then, a horrible realization came.

  The mysterious pathogen appeared to have originated from somewhere within Washington D.C., not mainland China, as first assumed. It wasn’t long before officials also determined it was synthetic, lending credible weight to the theory that this was, in fact, an unprecedented act of bioterrorism against the population of the United States.

  But from whom?

  No rogue regime, hostile government, domestic, or international terror group ever came forward to claim responsibility for the attack. There was never any talk of fighting back against the Great Satan, or a need to shift the paradigm of global power away from the U.S. And those who openly touted the idea of a possible False Flag attack were quickly ridiculed and denounced by the media as crackpots. But much to everyone’s confusion, there seemed to be no ideological or political agenda behind the pandemic. It was just death. Pure and indiscriminate.

  Despite Washington’s stringent attempts to contain the outbreak, it was not long until it breached the northern and southern borders, spreading like wildfire throughout the Americas, and eventually on to the rest of the world.

  The few primitive tribes left on the planet believed this plague came from the Gods themselves, and it was nothing but their wrath raining down over mankind to bring about our ruin. The Kalui people, a small tribe from the Southern Highlands of Papua New Guinea, told a small contingent of international aid workers they saw the forest bleeding after a heavy soaking of unusual rainfall. They claimed the rain was not rain, but something else. Soon after, all contact with the tribe was lost. The aid workers were also never seen nor heard from again.

  In an attempt to fight back, the best behavioral, logistic, and data experts across Europe, Australia, New Zealand, and Asia were brought in under a bilateral military coalition led by the United States to help combat the global mortality rates that were skyrocketing at an ungodly speed. But their efforts were to no avail. It was predicted that up to 90% of the world’s population could end up infected within two-years.

  Ally remembered watching as those newscasts became swallowed with panicked testimonials of emergency measures failing to halt the collapse of critical infrastructure. Power grids going dark soon gave way to reactor meltdowns, and much like the U.S., law and order across the globe was abandoned as rioting, looting, and the worst impulses of human nature bubbled to the surface.

  And then, the mutation came.

  The infected were no longer dying, they were changing - morphing into something unnatural. They soon became known as the Afflicted. Seemingly overnight, like some otherworldly form of Chrysalis, millions of people were reborn into horrific creatures that barely resembled human form. However, these creatures were far from mindless. They not only moved with the efficiency, coordination, and purpose of migrating herds, they also hunted in packs, feeding on anything they could find strewn across the decaying earth.

  Ally remembered it all. And if not for the man sitting beside her, she would have not survived any of it.

  Liam Bishop gently bounced in his seat, holding his scuffed and weathered assault rifle between his legs, its slated carbon-fiber barrel pointed downward. Early-forties, he’d easily be
pegged for mid-fifties if one did not know any better. Like Ally, his features had been prematurely dulled by the harshness of this world. His flinty green eyes breathed in every surrounding detail while exuding nothing but resolve. He was one of the co-founders of this militia, and over the years, had maintained a grip on every slippery rung alongside Ally, navigating internal political conflicts and betrayals, as well as the constant threat of dwindling supplies. That was not including the hordes of Afflicted they had to deal with on a regular basis.

  “Two mikes to target,” said the chopper pilot over their internal comms.

  Ally clipped on her gas mask and turned to the six anxious teammates seated across from her.

  The ultra-violet glow illuminated their bulky tactical armor as they sat there, knees bouncing nervously, wedged in like a Gridiron team before a big game, quiet and tense, waiting for their coach’s orders.

  “Remember, we’re avoiding the main terminal and what’s left of the control tower. The fuel depot was raided long ago, so if there’s anything of value remaining here, it’ll be in the passenger luggage and storage compartments of those airliners. Grab whatever you can; soap, deodorant, snacks, anything. I want two teams - one per aircraft. Keep it tight, and no wandering off. You see any Afflicted, you are weapons-free. Understood?”

  They all gave her a thumbs-up and began checking their gear over. Two of Ally and Liam’s squadmates were men no older than eighteen, with the oldest member being a woman in her late thirties. The woman finished scribbling some last words into her electronic journal, then lowered her gas mask, while the young man next to her closed his eyes in a quick prayer. It felt as if they were traversing a war zone, about to drop into occupied territory. In many ways, that was exactly what they were about to do.

  “Two minutes,” said the co-pilot as the chopper dipped lower, coming in hot over a dark and glassy stretch of the Potomac River. “Coming up on our ten-o-clock. Standby for doors open!”

  Ally stood, balancing as she slung her high-powered Gauss crossbow over her shoulders and checked the blaster holstered to her utility belt. She turned to Liam with a wry smirk, which he could not see but knew was there under her mask. “You got my back, right?”

  Liam stood and joined her, returning the smirk. “You got mine?” The confirmation and reassurance went without saying, but they still enjoyed performing this playful challenge before each mission. It had become somewhat of a ritual between them. They pounded fists and then readied themselves to disembark, checking each other’s gear over. Liam then flung the chopper door open and a howling wind rushed in to greet them. He leaned out to observe the approaching network of derelict runways, the icy wind ripping his masked face.

  “Thirty seconds. Get ready!” the pilot relayed; his voice now swollen with urgency.

  All eyes in the cab now focused on the single red light above the open door, waiting for it to turn green. The chopper bounced harder as it continued to rapidly descend, everyone’s stomachs dropping, making it feel as if they were now flying inside a blender. When it reached a six-foot hover over an outer runway, kicking up a hurricane of dust and debris, the red light switched to green.

  Liam jumped out first, landing on the weed-riddled asphalt with a knee-shattering combat roll.

  Ally and the others followed him out. The second they rolled back onto their feet; they formed a defensive perimeter with Liam at the apex.

  Behind them, the chopper lifted off again and banked away, vanishing behind a cloud of swirling grit. It would circle the outer fringes of the airport to provide overwatch, with their door gunner manning a gimbaled plasma cannon.

  Advancing across the runway, weapons sweeping, Ally and Liam took cover behind a cluster of rusted baggage carts, surveying the airport through the tactical scopes attached to their weapons. Their eyes panned slowly over the abandoned sprawl, taking note of every visual and audible detail.

  The wind whistled through a cemetery of deserted aircraft - the ancient relics of a lost civilization - their buckled wings and skeletal fuselages looking like the remains of giant, prehistoric flying creatures.

  Ally zeroed in on a partially exposed Delta check-in terminal, noting the shattered jet bridge that was once attached to a departure gate. “No visible surface activity. What are you thinking?”

  Liam continued to steadily pan his rifle across the adjacent taxiway before responding. “As long as the sun’s high in the sky, we should be good.” His heavily filtered breathing sounded like the ragged gasps of someone with an acute respiratory illness.

  Ally held up her hand and gave the signal to move.

  The two teams split as they each approached their primary objectives.

  Ally led her three-man team along the starboard side of the nearest 747, weaving around a fallen engine pylon that had dropped from the wing.

  Liam advanced with his three teammates to a faded Airbus resting atop an adjacent apron. The aluminum skin of the fuselage was bloated and torn, caused by the long-term exposure of its internal spars and cross members. The landing gear on both aircraft had collapsed, their stress tolerances long since reached from decay and lack of maintenance.

  At the 747, Ally huddled underneath the open entrance hatch nearest to the partially collapsed cockpit. She secured her crossbow and gave her team a nod. The three men boosted her up into the cabin, then followed her up. The last man up was hoisted into the plane by his arms.

  They gathered themselves outside the forward stowage, the Halogen flashlights attached to the underside of their weapons now cutting through the stale air.

  Oxygen masks dangled and flapped over brittle leather seats like tentacles. Most of the overhead bins were open, but some remained closed. Some appeared to have been bashed in, with uneven trails of dried blood smeared across them.

  Further ahead, an upturned food trolley could be seen blocking the optional sleeping pods and first-class lounge units. Unclaimed luggage was visible everywhere along the aisle - strewn over ruptured sandwich panels and flooring plinths. It was a landfill of moldy books, clothing, blankets, and rusted electronic devices. It was also clear that the moment this aircraft landed; it had been evacuated in haste.

  That realization caused Ally to grin. They had been slowly working their way through this area over the past two weeks, and so far, the pickings had been slim. But for whatever reason, it was believed this airport had never been entirely looted. It had sat abandoned and unexplored for decades. It was time to find out why.

  Today could very well turn out to be a great day, Ally thought as a sudden burst of hope shot through her chest. “Let’s split up,” she whispered. “Justin and Harris - you take the hold. Dan and I will clear the upper cabin and galleys. Stay on comms. I want a ten-minute window.”

  “Roger that,” replied Justin, as he and Harris moved to the stairwell that led down into the cargo hold. They kept their weapons raised as they cautiously descended into the bowels of the aircraft.

  Ally switched her comms to another channel by tapping a small holographic icon that hovered above her forearm. “Liam, how’s it going over there?”

  Static crackled until he responded. “We’re making our way towards the rear galley now, but there’s not much here. Aside from an old Parka, I found some plastic cutlery and a small box of cereal.”

  “What about electronics?”

  “Looks like all the flight instruments and circuitry was stripped out of this thing a long time ago. How about you?”

  “Might have a possible jackpot here. Head on over when you’re done and give me a hand.”

  “Copy that,” he replied. “Be there soon.”

  Ally slipped a large duffel bag off her shoulder and turned to Dan. “Let’s make it quick. Something about this… I don’t know, feels way too easy.”

  Dan could see her deepening concern through the visor of her gasmask. “Yeah. I hear you,” he replied. “Keep your eyes open.”

  They began working their way down each aisle, checking overh
ead bins and luggage, tossing anything of value into their bags.

  Justin and Harris continued to push deeper into the belly of the 747, their flashlight beams dancing over the ribbed curvature and metal struts of the lower fuselage.

  They came across three long rows of intact suitcases and passenger luggage. Everything was caked in thick dust. None of it appeared to have been touched since the day it was first loaded onto the aircraft.

  Beyond that was the bulk storage area for freight items. The pointed tip of a surfboard could be seen sticking up among the pallets of packages and crates, spots of blackened, moisture-damaged foam showing underneath its cracked fiberglass. They would eventually ransack all this stuff, but passenger luggage wasn’t the ultimate prize they had come for. There was something else down here that was potentially far more valuable to them.

  Using his flashlight, Harris began to trail a bundle of wires that snaked behind a series of overhead girders. The wires soon gave way to heavy feeder cables that eventually led to an array of auxiliary power units. Those continued towards the aircraft’s primary avionics board.

  When Harris saw it, a wide grin formed under his mask. “Jackpot.”

  Justin lowered his weapon and breathed a sigh of relief. “Ally, we’ve got an avionics bay down here. Looks like all the components are intact,” he said into his comms device.