Contents
Title Page ebook
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Review
More Grave Diggers
Authors Note
About the Author
THE SUICIDE KING
A GRAVE DIGGERS SERIES
- Book 2 -
by
Chris Fritschi
DISCLAMER
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
The Suicide King
Chris Fritschi
Copyright © 2017 by Christopher Fritschi. All rights reserved. This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by United States of America copyright law.
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This book is dedicated to my wife for her tireless support and encouragement.
Acknowledgements
A special thanks to all of you, you know who you are, for the encouragement and finger wagging that kept me on my toes through the development of this book. The critical, but honest, input from my beta-readers Samantha, Lauren, Cinnamon, Becka and my wholly unbiased wife. You guys make me look good.
My thanks to my friend, Mark Stromberg, for his helpful suggestions. Enough can’t be said for my wife who spent endless hours listening to me brain-dump over this book. Her patience and support never flagged.
CHAPTER ONE
CHAOS
Chaos filled the Blackhawk’s cabin as the helicopter slewed drunkenly sideways through the blackness of the night sky. People frantically grabbed for anything to hold on to as others frantically tried to buckle their straps in the darkness.
Tate’s shouts were drowned out by the roar of the engines and panicked yells of his unit. He stomped down the fear clawing to own him as he climbed over bodies to get close enough to see each face in the cabin.
Gunfire flashed below the Blackhawk, momentarily lighting figures in a freeze-frame strobe of movement.
Without warning, the helicopter violently yawed, throwing Tate over other bodies. He grabbed the frame of the bench seat and pulled himself up to see what was happening in the cockpit.
In the eerie glow of the instrument panel, Tate could see Kaiden shouting from the co-pilot seat. The helicopter sharply pitched the other way.
“What’s happening?” screamed Tate over the engines.
The pilot grabbed Kaiden’s shoulder and yanked her to him, across the console. Something appeared in Kaiden’s hand and the cockpit flashed in brilliant light as she shot the pilot in the face.
The Blackhawk went into a violent spin, tilting sharply.
Blinded by the gun flash, Tate fumbled to anchor himself against the pull of inertia, but the force broke his grip as the deck of the cabin lurched under his feet. He flailed for anything to grasp as he stumbled backwards.
His foot came down on empty air and suddenly there was nothing but the sound of the rushing wind.
Combat Outpost Pluto – Four Hours Earlier
Sergeant Major Jack Tate stretched out on his rack with a mixed grunt of exhaustion and frustration. They’d been out all day, following a cargo pilot’s report of a sighting of survivors in a small village, three hours hike from the outpost. Tate could still see their haggard faces. They were in bad shape and a couple were near starvation.
Their story was similar to other survivors; Vix, violent bands of scavengers, little food, and sickness.
Tate had been surprised when a couple of kids came out of hiding as he and his team were greeted when they first landed. He hardly ever saw kids anymore because they were the first to fall to the brutal living conditions.
Fulton had let the kids play with the radio, and the horrors they’d lived through were forgotten as they snorted and giggled, hearing each other over the radio.
Children’s laughter was a sound Tate hadn’t heard in a long time and he had abruptly turned off his headset before it threatened to revive memories of his daughter, but it was too late.
Even now, as he laid on his cot, her face smiled brightly in his mind. Unwanted memories came at him of her as an infant cradled in the crook of his arm to her chasing him around the living room as she giggled madly as he had capered around. It all turned to pain as memory of that call, the sound of phone and the voice telling him she was dead, and his life was over.
“Not happening,” snapped Tate, breaking the train of memories.
In spite of his fatigue, he hefted his bulk off his cot and pushed away those memories by inventorying his combat pack. Before they’d come to this outpost, Tate had resupplied his pack, because the last place he wanted to be caught short was a remote outpost.
It wasn’t an attack of hostiles Tate concerned himself with; he almost wished for the days when the biggest threat was taking enemy fire. Those days were gone. The real danger now was the stuff of nightmares.
Two years ago, the world was changed forever when the undead rose up and swept across the planet in a rotting tide of blood and death. The United States was luckier than some countries, but only by a little. The country barely held together as pieces of the government and infrastructure were ripped away.
With one hand, America fought for survival, while with the other hand it threw together fortifications around its cities. Whether America or the undead is trapped inside the walls is a matter of opinion.
South America didn’t fare as well, if at all. One after another, the countries were swarmed; their governments collapsed, escaped, or were destroyed. Nobody realized the extent of devastation to South America, but when waves of undead began to sporadically surge into the southern regions of Mexico, it was clear something had to be done.
The cork in the flowing bottle of undead was the United Nations’ resolution, which annexed South America to the United States. Some countries objected, but nobody was in any shape to take on the task. No one had heard from any of the representatives of any of the countries of South America. The only transmissions received from there were individuals, pleading for help. Everyone’s story was the same; there was nothing left. South America was a thriving graveyard.
America had never been as weak and vulnerable to its enemies as it was then. There was no doubt other countries had suffered the same, or worse, mauling. What was left of America’s government wasn’t going to wager the country’s safety, and they refocused the military to protect the nation, leaving no armed forces to spare for, what it called, “mopping up” – killing the undead.
Stemming the flow of undead, aptly named Victus Mortuus (Latin for living dead) – or Vix, for short – became the task of the ‘All Volunteer Expeditionary Force’ - AVEF.
A new branch attached to Mortuary Affairs, the AVEF was created for the menial task of killing Vix and they accepted nearly anyone who could p
ass the entry requirements. These requirements had been greatly reduced, including no background checks, and came with the added incentive that once you served your full four years of service, any past or current criminal actions against you were wiped clean.
In short, the military needed bodies to throw at the Vix and weren’t picky about who they got.
Boot camp for the AVEF was cut down to basic weapons safety, some marksmanship, and learning to follow orders. The Vix was not an enemy that strategized, or used cunning. If they saw you, they’d make a direct line to you. All you had to do was pull the trigger. It was really that easy, if you got lucky. What the recruiter didn’t tell you was the speed and unrelenting viciousness Vix attacked with.
Before the emergence of the Vix, Jack Tate didn’t exist. His name had been Jack Tiller, and his life was very different than it was now. Jack had been part of the 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment, also known as Delta Force.
His unit, The Night Devils, were assigned high-risk operations nobody else would touch. Each member was highly trained, skilled in tactics, weapons, and concealment, to name a few.
Individually they were a force to be reckoned with, but combined as a unit they made the four horsemen of the apocalypse look like cub scouts. Jack wasn’t a violent man, but he was a warrior who understood that violence had a place in the world, and he would deliver violence upon the enemies of his country when and where needed; whether that was aiding an ally or rescuing American hostages on the other side of the world.
Back then he was fit, skilled, confident and absolutely the last person you’d ever want to see at the other end of a gun.
Now, he was overweight, out of shape, part of the AVEF and barely holding onto a few threads of his life.
Everything changed two years earlier, when he’d been deployed on a mission and got the call. His daughter was dead; attacked by a Vix while she played in the front yard. Nobody could explain how this could have happened in a safe zone, walled off from the Vix. There were no witnesses. Nobody heard the attack, not that it mattered. She was dead.
It was a loss Jack couldn’t recover from. He tried, for his wife and for the life they’d built together, but his spirit was crushed. He was circling the gaping hole left by his daughters death until eventually he’d fall in.
After a while, he stopped fighting it, waiting for the blackness to close over him. He couldn’t save his daughter, but he could save his wife before he dragged her into that hole with him. He’d unburden her from the wreck of a husband he’d become, and the following night he left. He walked out the door, leaving behind everything he had; everything he was. Jack Tiller ceased to exist.
Changing his identity to Jack Tate, he eventually returned to the only thing he could relate to; the military.
Knowing the AVEF wouldn’t ask a lot of questions, he joined up and soon after was stationed at Fort Hickok, the primary base for the AVEF, located north of the Columbian border; the “stopper” of Vix getting into North America.
This was Tate’s life.
CHAPTER TWO
OVERRUN
The air conditioner sounded like a cheap rock tumbler as it struggled to overcome the muggy air.
Asleep, Tate swatted at a bead of sweat that trickled down his belly. He stirred restlessly as blinks of light filtered through the murk of sleep.
Somewhere in the back of his subconscious, the rattle of the air conditioner sharpened and prodded for his attention.
He rolled onto his side, turning his back on the intangible threat to his sleep.
The window above Tate’s cot exploded into the room and bullets puckered the far wall.
Tate hesitated in confusion, then rusty reflexes took over and he launched himself onto the floor. He rolled away from the cot, grabbing his combat pack and rifle, and barreled through the door into the next room, where the rest of his squad had been sleeping.
They were hunkered on the floor, as Sergeant Lori Wesson, his second in command, barked orders at them.
“Down,” she yelled over the sound of gunfire. “Stay put until we know what’s going on.”
“Wesson,” yelled Tate. “Everyone here?”
Wesson did a quick head count of the squad. Monkhouse, Ota, Fulton and Rosse were hugging the floor, but focused on her for their next orders.
“All here,” said Wesson.
“Squad, stay low and follow me,” snapped Tate.
Crouching down, they moved to the rear door of the barracks, away from the main compound.
Tate cracked opened the door as three soldiers ran by.
“What’s going on?” he hollered.
The soldiers flinched, looking for a threat, but dropped their guard when Tate stepped into the light from the lamp over the back door.
“Vix,” yelled one of them. “Vix are in the camp.”
A klaxon began wailing, ratcheting up the fear in the eyes of the soldiers who then ran off. Panicked shouts and bursts of gunfire chattered around the camp.
Tate turned to his squad. “Vix in the base. We’re going to the center of the compound. Weapons ready, but don’t shoot if you’re not sure it’s a Vix.”
Hugging the side of the barrack’s wall, they moved quickly to the front of the building.
Spotlights from the guard towers swept over the camp, briefly lighting up figures running in all directions.
Across the yard, Tate saw a soldier bent over a body, but couldn’t tell what was happening until the kneeling soldier looked up.
Their eyes met, but what was looking back at Tate was nothing human. Scraps of flesh hung from his mouth and blood smeared his face.
The Vix leapt to its feet and charged towards Tate with frenzied speed.
In one smooth action, Tate brought his rifle to his shoulder and fired a single round. The Vix’s head jerked back as the bullet exploded from the back of its head, and it flopped to the ground.
Static popped from Tate’s radio. “Tate, how copy?”
He recognized his friend’s voice. Tate unslung his pack and pulled out the radio. “I copy, Kaiden,” he answered. “We need to meet up. Where are you? Over.”
“I’m heading to the helo pad,” said Kaiden. “I have the pilot with me.”
“The pilot? We aren’t leaving,” said Tate. “We need to secure the camp.”
“What camp? If you haven’t realized, this place is going under. If the Vix don’t kill you, these panicked idiots will.”
“Damn it, Kaiden. I don’t have…”
Machine gun fire from a watch tower barked above the sporadic gun shots from rifles, as tracer rounds rained down through the compound, hitting a fuel tank.
Tate was momentarily blinded by the explosive flash. Rivulets of burning fuel snaked through the compound, lighting the camp in a flickering nightmare. The fire pushed back the darkness, revealing Tate as a panicked soldier ran by. Startled, the soldier yelped in surprise and wildly sprayed bullets at Tate until his weapon was empty then ran off.
Sergeant Monkhouse grabbed Tate and yanked him into cover. “You okay?”
“He wasn’t even close,” said Tate.
“This is nuts,” said Monkhouse. “We have to find the base commanding officer, or someone who isn’t losing their mind.”
“That was the commanding officer,” said Tate. He keyed up his radio. “Change of plan, Kaiden. Hold that chopper. We’re coming to you.”
Tate and his squad hugged the sides of buildings, staying in the shadows until they came to the short dirt road that lead up to the knoll where the helicopter was.
The shooting had died down to sporadic bursts of fire, then nothing. That might have been a good sign that the Vix had been killed off, but Tate doubted it.
“Sounds like things are quieting down, Top,” said Monkhouse. “Maybe things are getting under control?”
“Or maybe there aren’t any people left to shoot them,” said Tate. “We keep going.”
As they neared the helicopter pad, they heard the
welcoming sound of the helicopter blades thumping the air, but doubt and worry swept away any sense of relief as gunfire opened up.
“Kaiden,,” said Tate. “Status.”
His radio was only static.
They had to move. They broke from the shadows and raced to the helicopter pad.
Running around a stack of storage crates, they saw the dimly lit UH-60 Blackhawk. Its safety lights strobed, illuminating figures franticly scrambling around the cockpit doors. A flash of light from the co-pilot seat and one of the figures jolted back as the side of his head exploded.
In that brief instant of light, Tate saw Kaiden in the co-pilot seat.
“Those are Vix around the chopper,” he said, as he brought up his rifle. “I’m going to draw them away. Nobody fires until you have a clear shot without hitting the helicopter. Understood? Sergeant Wesson?”
Wesson was Tate’s second in command and took her role seriously. She had been guarding the rear the of the squad and moved up near Tate.
“Yes, Sergeant Major?”
“When they come after me,” he said with a grin, “don’t miss.”
Wesson nodded solemnly, and the squad readied their weapons.
With a grunt, Tate took off, crossing the dirt road and fired his gun in the air.
In unison, the group of Vix around the Blackhawk turned their heads. Seeing Tate, they launched themselves after him at a full sprint.
The squad watched as the Vix left behind the helicopter.
“Now,” shouted Wesson.
The Vix were eating the distance towards Tate, when the squad opened up. A blaze of gunfire slammed into the swarm of Vix, cutting them down in mid stride.
Tate fed another magazine into his rifle as he headed back for the helicopter.
“Squad, let’s go,” he yelled.
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