Last Man Standing Box Set [Books 1-3]

by Taylor, Keith

  Of course, that’s exactly what the pricks running this camp want to happen. That’s the only reason this fucking place exists. That’s why Vee and Warren are taking such a risk.

  “OK, you ready for this?” asks Vee, holding the steering wheel steady with her knees as she tugs a large block of C-4 from her pack and pushes a blasting cap into the mass.

  “Ready as I’ll ever be,” Warren replies, taking the C-4 from her hand and securing it firmly to the dash. He prepares himself to roll as Vee guides the cart towards the target. She sets the perfect approach angle, and Warren swings his rifle against his chest as they draw closer to the cover of an abandoned fire truck.

  They both roll as one away from the vehicle, quickly pulling themselves to their feet and ducking behind the truck as the electric cart continues on towards the target, the accelerator wedged to the floor. Vee grasps the remote firing detonator in one hand and steadies her M16 with the other, waiting for the right moment.

  Under the harsh floodlights lining the runway the courtesy vehicle rides silent, straight and true towards the first of three banks of dark green prefab cabins that extend at least a half mile down the runway. There are hundreds of them, maybe even a thousand, all of them powered by a tightly packed cluster of hybrid solar-diesel generators humming away at one end. The cart approaches them. Fifty yards. Forty. Thirty. Warren whispers a prayer as the cart begins to pull a little to the left. Twenty. Ten. It’s slightly off target, but it looks like it’ll still strike close enough to count.

  Vee flips the cap on the detonator and squeezes the trigger.

  All hell breaks loose. The rain-soaked black surface of the runway glows for a brief moment with the reflected flash of the explosion, and a fraction of a second later the truck rocks to the side as the shock wave passes and the noise washes over them. Vee and Warren wait for the roar to pass, peer around the side of the truck and smile when they see they’ve achieved their goal.

  The bank of generators lies in ruins. The burned out wreckage of the cart smolders, while around it lie piles of twisted steel and shattered solar cells.

  The floodlights flicker and fail for a moment as they switch to their own emergency solar charged backups, returning at half power and casting the runway in an eerie half light. It’s dim, but in the ghostly glow Warren sees the result of the destruction.

  The electronically locked doors at the front of each cabin swing slowly open under their own weight.

  ΅

  :::4:::

  I STARE AT the open door in disbelief, wondering for a moment if my mind hasn’t finally cracked under the pressure. I haven’t seen the door open without an armed guard standing behind it in two weeks. I’d almost forgotten what the empty runway behind it even looked like.

  It’s only the burned down cigarette between my fingers that drags me back to the moment. I drop the butt to the steel floor and turn back to Bishop, sitting at the edge of his cot in the sudden darkness, staring open mouthed at the door as if he’s waiting for me to confirm that he’s not imagining it.

  “Wait there,” I whisper, holding my hand out to keep him on the bed. “Lemme check it out.” I don’t want us to go rushing out only to find ourselves pushed back in at gunpoint. I don’t think ether of us could face that. Not after taking our first breath of fresh air in two weeks. I edge closer to the door, sticking by the wall until I can just about see out onto the runway.

  “Fuck!” I jump back as the sound of gunfire breaks the silence. Muzzle flashes reflect off the dark steel of the door, and I hear the rapid drumbeat of automatic weapons fire striking the side of a nearby cabin. Whoever’s firing, it’s close.

  It’s also panicked. The rate of fire suggests someone burning through his magazine far too quickly. These aren’t the quick, controlled bursts of a trained soldier. They’re the frantic, last ditch shots of someone who knows he’s about to die.

  “Get back, Tom,” hisses Bishop, rolling behind the cover of his cot. “Don’t go out there!”

  Yeah, no fucking kidding. I don’t know what the hell’s going on outside our door, but it doesn’t matter. There’s no way in hell we could ever make it across the hundreds of yards of open space outside the cabin. There’s zero cover, and picking us off would be like shooting fish in a barrel. It’s probably safer to take shelter at the back of the room and wait for the chaos to end.

  I’m halfway across the room when I hear the sound echoing between the cabins.

  Snarling. Groaning. Rasping breath.

  I freeze mid-step, holding my breath as I listen for the sound again. That’s a sound I’ve heard before. It’s a sound forever burned into my memory, and I’ve spent the last month hoping against hope I’d never have to hear it again. It’s the sound of approaching death.

  “Bishop,” I whisper, scanning the room for anything I could use as a weapon, “we need to get the fuck out of here, now.” I almost expect to have to coax him out from his hiding place but I’m surprised to see him stand, lift his bed easily onto its side and begin to unscrew one of the thick steel legs from the frame. It comes loose in just a few seconds, and he tosses it over to me before grabbing another.

  “I figured we might need to use these for a breakout,” he shrugs, noticing my surprise. “I think they’re full of sand or something. Could make a good cosh, you know? I noticed they screwed off a few days ago.”

  I swing the pipe experimentally, surprised at the weight. Bishop could be right. There’s definitely something inside the hollow tube, and it feels solid enough to at least get in a good crack if it comes to it.

  “Good thinking, Bishop. OK, you good to go?” I ask, still surprised that he isn’t cowering in the corner.

  “Does the Pope shit in the woods?” He tugs on his jacket and makes for the door. “I’ve been good to go for a God damned month. Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

  Outside the door the floodlights spaced between each cabin flicker dimly, struggling to maintain their power. Small pools of light illuminate the outer walls of the cabins, but between them deep shadows hide God knows what on this moonless, cloudy night. I flinch as a shot rings out somewhere behind me, and in the darkness I hear frightened yells and hissed whispers from the people still hidden in the cabins. Nobody else seems to have dared emerge yet, and for a moment I wonder if we should be proud of being the first to escape or worried that we’re the only people dumb enough to abandon the relative safety for a dark runway peppered with gunfire and the sounds of the dead.

  It only takes a moment for my question to be answered. As Bishop and I crouch in the shadow of our cabin door a shape emerges into the light just a few yards away. It’s a man.

  Correction: it was a man, once.

  Now... not so much. As the figure moves into the dim light it becomes obvious he’s infected. He stands in a hospital gown, streaked with blood and trailing IV lines from both arms. He has about six inches on me, and his arms look almost as thick as my legs. There’s no way I could take him down without a gun, and even if I had one I’d probably miss when this hulking monster came barreling towards us.

  He turns quickly in the small pool of light, swinging his head back and forth as if he’s sniffing the air for a target, and as he turns towards us and the light catches his face it’s all I can do to keep myself from gasping. He’s been mutilated almost beyond recognition. He drools from a gummy, toothless mouth, and his infected eye sockets weep with pus. It’s hard to tell in the half light but it looks as if someone took a soldering iron to his eyeballs. The milky, misshapen, useless burst orbs stare out blindly towards us, almost as if he can still see us crouching in the darkness. Did he do that to himself?

  He takes a step towards us, perhaps sensing our presence somehow. Beside me I feel Bishop tense to run, and I quickly grip his arm and squeeze as hard as I can. No. Don’t move. I shake my head and point towards the guy’s ruined eyes. I know he can’t see us. If we just stay quiet and still we might be able to wait until—

  A scream echoes
from a cabin in the next row. In an instant the man breaks into a silent run straight towards it, ricocheting blindly off the wall of the cabin then tracing its sides with his hand, searching for a way in until he finally reaches the open door. The scream rings out again as someone inside tries far too late to pull it closed. All along the row I hear similar screams, ended by the groans of the infected. I start to run. I don’t need to hear people die.

  I run without thinking, just trying to get the fuck away from here in case there are more infected nearby. I break from the row of cabins, across the empty asphalt and out onto the wet, cool grass between the runway and the service roads leading back to the terminal; that strange, fallow no man’s land you watch as you wait for your plane to taxi back to the gate, dotted with numbered markers that presumably mean something to the pilot.

  My feet sink an inch or so in the soft, wet mud as I run, an odd sensation after walking for a month on the firm steel floor of the cabin. I feel like I’m stepping back on dry land after a long spell at sea, or like I’m stuck in one of those nightmares in which the air is as thick as molasses, and I’m struggling to flee while something terrifying draws closer and closer with each sucking step.

  For a moment I panic as I sense a presence behind me. I hear movement and heavy breathing, and when I risk a quick glance behind I almost laugh out loud when I see the red faced Bishop struggling to keep up. In my panic I’d almost forgotten he was with me. I open my mouth to tell him to slow down for a moment, but before the first word escapes my mouth I trip on something solid, unseen in the darkness, and tumble forward and down a steep slope that suddenly appears before me.

  I roll down the slippery slope, tumbling over a couple of times before I land hard, face first in something soft and moist. I try to raise myself up but my hands sink wrist deep in wet slurry. I feel like I’m sinking in it. Drowning. Being pulled down into black quicksand. I tug my hands from the grasping, sucking mud and scramble about for a grip on something solid, and after a moment my fingers meet something familiar but entirely unexpected. I probe around, confused.

  A gaping mouth. Lips. Teeth. A chin covered in rough stubble.

  I snatch my hand back in revulsion and clutch it against my chest, blindly checking for bite marks with my other hand. I open my eyes wide and try to adjust to the lack of light, but the pitch blackness seems even deeper down here, as if there’s something blocking even the dim shapes of the clouds above. I’m blind.

  I gingerly touch my hand to the ground beneath me again, and immediately realize what I’m touching. I know where I am. I know what they’ve done.

  I scramble wildly out of the ditch, dragging myself up the wet, slippery slope using the short steel pole from the bed as a kind of ice pick, driving it into ground that feels far too firm to be soil. When I finally reach the lip of the slope and feel solid earth beneath my hands I find Bishop standing at the top, his lower lip quivering as he looks down at the dark shapes beneath him.

  There’s a roof of camouflaged netting held above the pit, suspended on stakes that surround it, holding it in place to hide it from view. Now the smell hits me fully. It’s on my clothes, covering my hands and in my mouth. It’s everywhere, and I know it’s a stink that will take more than a shower to remove. It will live in my memory forever.

  Hidden beneath the netting in the pitch darkness lie hundreds of bodies, all of them clad in the same blue hospital gowns as the infected man we saw at the cabin. A few of the bodies have been dumped towards the top of the slope, close to the edge of the netting where a little light can reach them. They’re all the same. Puncture wounds in the arms from IV lines. Eyes poked out. Teeth yanked from their mouths.

  “What the hell is this, Tom?” Bishop asks, his voice wobbling on the verge of tears. “What happened to them?”

  “They were guinea pigs.”

  We both spin around at the sound of the voice behind us. In the darkness the figure is barely visible, kitted out in a dark green military uniform, her face blackened with grease paint.

  “Who the fuck are you?” I demand, feeling stupid even as I raise the pipe in case I need to fight her off. She just tilts her head and swings her M16 down from her shoulder as if to say just try it, asshole.

  “We came to save these sorry bastards,” she says, looking down into the pit with disgust. “Looks like we left it too late.” She turns away from us and calls back over her shoulder. “Found it, Warren. You’re not gonna like it.”

  Another figure emerges from the darkness in the direction of the runway, hidden from view by the distant glow of the floodlights behind him until he’s almost on top of us. He’s dressed the same as the woman, but he has a long rifle slung over his shoulder. As he reaches the pit he slows and stares at me and Bishop.

  “Two guys. Seriously, two fucking guys made it?”

  The woman nods. “Don’t beat yourself up. We could have come two nights ago and rescued fifty, but it’s just as likely we would have been shot at the door and hundreds more would have died. Besides, it’s our fault. We should have guessed they’d have infected locked up in the same damned boxes.”

  Warren shakes his head and looks me up and down like he’s judging a disappointing show dog. He snorts derisively and spits before turning away from the pit and setting off towards the terminal. As he turns away he mutters in disgust. “One of you guys better fucking cure cancer.”

  ΅

  :::5:::

  THE PISTOL FEELS heavy in my hand. Heavier than I remember. It feels like I’m carrying a half brick, but I don’t mind the weight. I’m just enjoying the feeling of safety it gives me, knowing that if something comes rushing towards me I won’t have to wait until the last moment and hope I time the swing well enough to put it down with my short stick. I may not be a great shot, but at least now I’ll have to chance to deal with a threat before I can feel its breath on my face.

  “You ever fired one of those?” the woman asks, doubtfully.

  “Yeah, of course,” I reply, with a confidence that suggests I spend every weekend down at the range, then I reconsider. What’s the point in trying to bullshit a soldier? “I mean, not for a long time. Just once, actually. I spent a day at an army base in Mongolia and they let me play around with a couple of their guns.” I struggle to remember long-forgotten details. “I think the pistol I used was called a Makarov. Or is it Kamarov? And I tried a sniper rifle.” I nod towards the guy, Warren. “Though I guess you’re all set for a sniper. I also drove a tank for a while.”

  She smiles and nods condescendingly. “Uh huh. OK, well I’ll let you know if we need you to drive any tanks for us. In the meantime, keep the safety on and don’t point that thing at anything you don’t want dead. Understand? Good boy.”

  I nod, my cheeks hot with embarrassment. I never much cared that I wasn’t a guy’s guy before the last month. Shit, I was a journalist. I made my living with a pen and a laptop, and I only went into that game because I didn’t want to do a real job. I long ago came to peace with the idea that I’d never set panties on fire with my masculinity, and it’s only now I realize that I should have made at least a little effort to learn how to be useful now that words aren’t needed any more. I feel like a third wheel for the whole world, like a telegraph operator working at Google.

  “I’m Vee, by the way. Victoria Reyes. The guy with the bad attitude is Warren Campbell. You?”

  “Tom. Freeman. And the big guy is Bishop.”

  She looks over at the lumbering giant walking ten steps away with a peaceful, vacant expression on his face. “First name? Last name?”

  I shake my head. “Just Bishop. Trust me, don’t ask.”

  She narrows her eyes curiously. “What do you mean, don’t ask?”

  “Seriously, you don’t want to poke that hornet’s nest. Just call him Bishop, OK?”

  I can tell by the puzzled smile on her face that she won’t drop it. She walks across my path until she’s close enough to whisper. “Hey Bishop, what’s this I hear about y
our name?”

  Bishop spins on me with rage in his eyes and bellows. “Damn it, Tom, you promised you wouldn’t tell anybody!”

  “Will you guys keep it the fuck down?” hisses Warren, crouching behind the barrier at the side of the road, scanning around for signs of movement. “We’re not out of the woods yet.”

  Vee whispers, trying to calm Bishop. “It’s OK, it’s OK, I was just kidding. Tom didn’t tell me anything. It was just a joke.”

  Bishop clenches and unclenches his fists, looking between me and Vee as if he’s trying to sense a lie. Eventually he relaxes. “OK, that’s alright then. Just don’t tell, OK? You promised not to tell.”

  I nod and whisper back. “Sure, buddy, I won’t tell. It’s OK.” Vee walks back across me, and I drop my voice even lower. “I’ll tell you later.”

  We continue in silence for the next ten minutes until we finally reach our getaway vehicle. I was expecting something like Sergeant Laurence’s Stryker, or at least some kind of military Jeep, and I’m a little surprised when Warren stops beside a beat up old Toyota, pops the trunk and pulls out a soft carry case for his sniper rifle.

  “Wow, I see we’re riding in style.”

  Vee snorts. “It’s got wheels, an engine and a tank full of gas. Good enough for us.” She tugs open the rear door and nods at Bishop, who slides in before Warren follows him. “You’re riding shotgun, cowboy. Warren needs to play with his wife for a while in the back.”

  Warren lets out a sarcastic laugh, settles himself in the rear seat and sets about stripping down his rifle. “You couldn’t possibly understand the deep relationship a sniper forms with his rifle, you dumb grunt. Now get in and try not to crash.”

  I hop in the front passenger seat and take a look at my gun as Vee starts the engine and tears away onto the highway. I still don’t really know what I’m looking at, but I see the words Pietro Beretta engraved in the side of the barrel. I’ve at least heard of Berettas, even though I don’t know squat about guns. I squint to read the smaller letters beside the name of the gun, and a moment later I jerk forward as the car squeals to a halt.