Navy personnel rushed everywhere, some in dress uniform, others in their patchy blue work fatigues. Hernandez himself wore his fatigues, but he now wished that—like Johnson—he had thought to change into his dress uniform. He would be lost in this crowd, indistinguishable from the lowliest sailor. A wasted opportunity. Times like these—times of crisis—reputations got forged.
“Look at that beauty, Hernandez,” said Johnson as they hurried towards Hangar 4 where several dozen officers had assembled. He pointed to Pier 6, home to a floating monument, the USS New Hampshire.
The USS New Hampshire was the flagship of the US Navy. The latest Gerald R. Ford-class supercarrier, it was due to officially enter service next month, but here it was now, ready for action. Nuclear powered and highly automated, it was the most advanced naval craft in the world. Hernandez licked his lips at the thought of one day serving aboard her.
Not that Hernandez’s own ship, the USS Augusta, lacked prestige. A modern Burke-class destroyer, it was no duck in the water and could dominate most ships of equal size. Coincidentally, it had launched from this very naval station in 1993.
As they neared the wide-open Hangar 4, where a massive group of officers assembled in rank and file, something happened. Hernandez sensed it more than realised it at first, but he caught movement in the corner of his eye—saw people rushing more frantically than moments before. A panic had taken hold and was spreading.
“Something’s happened,” Hernandez muttered, slowing down and then stopping.
Johnson stopped too, but looked irritated. His intense green eyes were beds of concrete. “Keep your head in the game, Hernandez. I will not be late.”
Hernandez looked around and became more certain that some kind of news had just broken. A young ensign sprinted towards the docks and Hernandez grabbed her. “What is it? What’s happened?”
“New York is under attack. Orders are to offer support right now.”
Hernandez glanced at Johnson, who had changed from being irritated to looking confused. The look he gave the young ensign could have boiled water. “What do you mean ‘under attack’?”
The woman shrugged her arm free of his grasp. “I mean, those stones are exactly what we were all afraid of. They brought something here.”
“What—”
“I need to go.” The ensign sprinted away.
“We need to get to that briefing,” said Johnson.
With no counter-argument, Hernandez followed his commander towards Hangar 4. When they joined the other assembled officers, the panic had spread over the entire station—men and women cursed and cried. Some of them were from New York or had family there. Many fled, heading back to their ships or cars. Most remembered their duty and stayed, even as salty tears stained their cheeks.
When Admiral Kirsch appeared at the front of the hangar dressed in full regalia, the vast space fell silent. The sixty-year old man looked forty, with a wide chest full of medals and thick brown arms hanging confidently by his sides. A lifetime at sea had hardened the man, and even a sedentary command role failed to soften him. When he scanned over the assembled audience, he seemed to look at each person individually. Hernandez felt a chill.
Kirsch spoke slowly, making sure each word stood alone. “We. Are. At. War.”
The air vibrated. No one dared let out the slightest whisper.
Kirsch continued. “Ten minutes ago, New York City was attacked. Some of you may have seen the images already, but that shows nothing of the scale of what we face. Over six thousand black stones have been identified around the world in the last forty-eight hours, and as far as we can tell, every single one of them just opened up and spat out something alien. Our enemy: unknown. Their intentions: unknown. One thing we do know is that they are here to kill us. Man, woman, and child. The slaughter is going on right now, in New York, in nearly every other city you can name.”
Someone in the audience let out a strangled sob, but no one dared turn to see who.
Kirsch let the slight interruption go. He went on, “Assembled in front of me are some of the proudest, toughest, and most intelligent men and women the United States of America has at its disposal. Each one of you dreads the possibility of war; I know it, but each one of you is ready for it—has trained for it. You pledged your service to your country, but your country does not need you. The world needs you. Our foe is vicious and unknown. We will be gaining Intel on the ground as we fight, starting blind and finding our way as we go. We will win though, make no mistake about that. The enemy has ambushed us, caught us by surprise, but that is their first and only advantage. We have guns. They do not. We have hardware. They do not. We have the United States Navy, the meanest SOBs on this whole goddamn planet. Do you hear me?”
A cheer erupted, but it lacked bluster. The officers were still in shock.
“Most of us will go from here to offer aid to New York,” said Kirsch, “but there will be others of us with other destinations. The east coast alone is home to over a hundred of those God-forsaken stones. From now on, we shall refer to them as gates, because that, my friends, is what they are. Our enemy has come from someplace else—where, I don’t give two shits—but we sure as hell are going to send them right back with their tails between their legs.”
Another cheer. This one a little more enthusiastic.
Kirsch had grown red in the face now. “For the first time in our history as a species, we will go to war, not because of greed, religion, or politics, but for survival. We will, for the first time, be a united mankind, against an enemy that wishes to snuff us out. Are we, men and women of the United States Navy, going to let them?”
A cheer. “No!”
“I said, are we fucking going to let them?”
A resounding cheer. “No, sir!”
“Then get back to your posts. Man those engines, and get to war. Let our enemy gaze upon their reflections in puddles of their own blood. Let them—”
The ground shook beneath them. The air whipped up a breeze.
An explosion, deep and loud.
Pugnacity disappeared as panic came flooding back. The assembled officers stumbled. None of them knew what was happening. No one took charge. Even Kirsch looked confused.
Gunfire broke out.
“To battle stations,” Kirsch bellowed. Even though no one had designated stations, it served well enough to get them all moving.
Johnson moved, but Hernandez couldn’t get his feet going. The sound of continuing gunfire outside filled his veins with syrup and weighed him down. He’d never been in a firefight before. He was no marine.
“Get moving, Hernandez!” Johnson shoved him hard enough that it hurt. The pain snapped him into action, and he got moving again. Together, the two of them made a break for it. Outside, a pair of jeeps whizzed by, parting the confused crowd. Marines manned the rear-mounted machine guns.
Among the gunfire, screams broke out.
At the rear of the station, away from the piers and towards the main roads, smoke billowed and muzzles flashed. Marines filed together, rifles raised.
They fell quickly.
“What the hell is going on?” said Johnson.
Hernandez stumbled as someone collided with his back. That was his only reaction though, for his gaze fixed on that ever-diminishing line of marines. One by one they fell, their heads dipping out of view beyond the crowd. The crowd itself snarled up as hundreds of navy personnel fled towards the piers—away from the road. Hernandez and Johnson would get caught in the crush.
“We need to get out of here, sir.”
Thankfully, Johnson did not argue. “Back to the Augusta.”
They turned and tried to run, but the way forward was too thick with bodies. They were forced to shove and elbow their way along, inch by inch. Hernandez felt the unseen threat at his back like an approaching forest fire. He could even imagine his flesh burning, peeling from his back in bloody strips.
Was the enemy here?
Had they been ambushed? Or was it like
this everywhere?
They needed to get back to the Augusta. That was their home, and they could defend it. Here, at the station, they didn’t even have weapons to defend themselves.
Screams of pain multiplied and intensified, spreading out in an arc around the centre of the station as if the crowd was folding in on itself. The sound of gunfire increased too, but not from the direction of the marines. It was coming from the piers. Crewmen lined the various ship rails and fired from onboard. Hernandez instinctively ducked as he worried about a stray bullet parting his skull. As if to prove his concerns correct, he saw a young Lieutenant flop to the ground as a spray of blood erupted from his neck.
“Where the hell is the enemy?” Johnson shouted. “I can’t see a thing.”
Hernandez didn’t either, so he wasted no time replying. The question answered itself.
A creature appeared in the crowd, a burnt husk of a man. It looked right at Hernandez, but then swiped to its left, catching an oil-stained mechanic around the throat and tearing out his windpipe. The dead worker folded to the ground like a roll of old carpet.
Then the creature charged right at Hernandez.
Time slowed down. Hernandez felt his feet lock up again and could only flail his arms and open his mouth to cry out. Johnson was behind him, unaware of the hellish monstrosity racing towards them. The thing was so badly burnt that it left strips of flesh on the concrete with every bounding step. With each split second, it closed the distance between it and Hernandez, and its broken teeth ground together hungrily. Its gnarled fists groped at the air.
A young woman backed into Hernandez, and when she saw the burnt creature coming towards her, she screamed. The noise prodded Hernandez’s senses and caused him to react. He grabbed the young woman by the shoulder and shoved her hard at the incoming monster. It collided hard with her, and the two of them went down, the burnt creature on top. It tore chunks out of the woman as she screamed and fought.
Johnson grabbed Hernandez by the elbow and yanked him. “Keep moving.”
More of the burnt creatures threaded through the crowd, overrunning the entire base and attacking from all sides. Johnson and Hernandez would be ripped apart long before they reached the Augusta. The ship was berthed two hundred metres away on Pier 6, but it might as well have been two hundred miles away.
Where had the enemy come from?
“Rip ‘em to shreds,” a gruff voice shouted.
Hernandez turned to see Admiral Kirsch. The admiral held a large pistol in his hand and fired it like a cannon. A nearby creature’s head disappeared like a red jelly someone had kicked. With Kirsch stood four marines, each of them unleashing from MP5 sub-machine guns. Hernandez realised then how many of the burnt men were within arm’s reach of him. They began to fall everywhere, riddled with bullets from the dead-eyed marines.
Kirsch caught Hernandez standing still and shot him a withering glance. “What are you doing, man? Get back to your crew and join this fight. Now!”
Hernandez feared the old admiral more than any creature from the beyond, so he stumbled backwards into Johnson when shouted at. Before long, he was sprinting down the pier at a speed he hadn’t known he was capable of. Even Johnson, an impressively fit man, struggled to keep up.
But it still wasn’t enough.
The enemy was everywhere, and the way ahead was congested.
Hernandez looked back over his shoulder. An army of abominations flooded down the pier behind him. Fleeing sailors were flung to the ground and trampled, or tossed into the water like trash. Blood stained the concrete.
“We’re not going to make it,” said Johnson. “No way.”
“The water,” said Hernandez. “We swim for it.”
Johnson went to the edge of the pier and looked down. “I don’t fancy our chances, but it might be our only choice.”
The creatures would be on them any second. Only a few men and women now between Hernandez and the ensuing tide of death. The cold, dark water churning beneath the pier looked little more inviting. If the sudden whip of its cold caress didn’t blow their already overworked hearts, then the pull of the various ship props might drag them under.
What choice did they have?
Hernandez prepared himself to jump.
Out of nowhere, an enemy appeared and grabbed him. Not a burnt creature like the others, it was more like a monkey torn wretched by disease. Each of its arms ended in nine-inch talons, and its face was a twisted grimace of teeth. Hernandez was not proud, but he let out a yelp.
Johnson came to his rescue, kicking out at the creature and sending it sprawling. The creature clambered back to its feet and launched itself into the air.
Johnson stood his ground.
A blast of noise.
A mid-air impact altered the creature’s trajectory and sent it tumbling off the pier and into the ocean. More gunfire erupted nearby and Hernandez ducked down. Johnson spun around and pumped his fist in the air. “Yes! Let them have it!”
The crew of the Augusta filled the pier and brought their M164A to bear. Four dozen sailors pulled their triggers at once, sending forth a blanket of fire. Johnson grabbed Hernandez and dragged him behind the other men, out of harm’s way. He glanced back and witnessed legions of monsters flopping to the ground as their organs exploded and heads split open. The crew of the Augusta slammed in magazine after magazine. The gunfire was endless.
But the enemy kept coming.
“Fall back,” shouted Johnson, taking command of his men. “Back to the ship.”
The wall of rifles inched backwards, still firing, still reloading, but retreating. The enemy was not wary, even as they continued to fall. They came in continuous waves, a hellish banzai charge.
The sound of rifles stuttering dry brought despair—the scratching of death’s fingers on an empty chalkboard.
The first crewman fell, pounced on by one of the ape-like creatures. The attacker tore open his chest cavity and ripped free one of his ribs. More men fell behind him. Hernandez was aware that he was screaming.
“Back to the goddamn boat!” Johnson shouted.
The men turned and ran, most of their weapons empty and useless. Turning their backs led to a rout, but some of them might still have a chance. Hernandez raced to the front of the group, desperately reaching for the Augusta’s distant gangway.
He had to get there. He had to make it.
When his boot came down on the metal ramp, Hernandez gurned with relief. Snot ran down his face, and his knees buckled, but he was gathered aboard by his crew. Johnson was right behind him.
“Pull up the ramp,” Johnson shouted.
The ramp clunked and recalled itself.
The disfigured apes leapt onto it before it disappeared and began to clamber aboard.
Rat-a-tat-tat.
Port-side machine guns opened up and tore apart the enemy, removing them before they had a chance to make it onto the deck. Reinforcements manned the rails with fully loaded rifles. The enemies on the pier were sitting ducks.
Johnson grabbed his nearest ensign, Cuervo, and barked into the woman’s face. “Tell the bridge to get moving. We’re too vulnerable sitting here.”
“Aye, Captain.”
Hernandez wiped the snot from his face and looked out at Norfolk Station. Smoke billowed from every structure. The sky was black. The enemy was everywhere.
Dead sailors lay scattered, and many of the smaller vessels in dock were being overrun, their crews besieged. Yet it was something else that chilled Hernandez to his bones.
A thirty-foot giant strode along the main road towards the base, a thing of rippling muscle and sinew. Its face was a marble sculpture—a beauty to behold. But it was no man, and such beauty only hid its bloodlust as it reached down and crushed a fleeing jeep full of men. With every man it tore apart, it bellowed in triumph. It was a monster, greater and more vile than all before it.
Hernandez flopped against the railing, unable to talk.
It wasn’t aliens. It was someth
ing worse.
“What is that?” someone asked.
Hernandez eased himself away from the railing. “I don’t know, and I don’t want to stick around to find out.”
The Augusta had moved away from the pier, but that didn’t mean it was free from danger. War still raged at Norfolk Naval Station, and the giant had only added to the slaughter. The crew gasped as the towering creature picked up a fuel tanker as if it were a toy and hurled it through the air. It collided with the main runaway of the USS New Hampshire and exploded. Sailors screamed and threw themselves overboard as the searing flames engulfed them. A parked F15 fighter plane listed onto its side and came apart in another mighty explosion. More sailors screamed in agony.
Meanwhile, the bulk of the enemy force—the burnt men and disfigured apes—continued tearing apart those unlucky enough to be in their way. Droves of men and women had made it back aboard their ships, but just as many still lay stranded in the centre of the base, standing back to back and fighting valiantly, yet losing decisively.
“All munitions to the deck,” Johnson commanded. “I want a continuous line of fire supporting those men and women still trapped on land. Let’s turn this around.”
Glad to receive orders, the Augusta’s crew got to work. Hernandez retrieved his combat rifle and struggled to load it with a magazine. His hands were shaking. Back at the rail, he lined up his scope and started picking shots. The first four trigger-pulls missed, chucking up chunks of concrete, but the next one winged a disfigured ape. The creature had been about to leap on top of a bleeding woman, but hit the ground instead—its right leg disintegrated.
Hernandez gritted his teeth and picked his next target.
Another direct hit. The burnt man cartwheeled into the water.
The next thing his scope spotted surprised him: Admiral Kirsch was still alive.
His marines also. The old man had lost his cap, revealing a thick crop of white hair, and his dress uniform was now stained entirely crimson—but he was alive. He still held his weighty pistol, and the thing still fired like a bucking mule. The four marines with him placed their shots with lethal accuracy, but were clearly exhausted. They moved sluggishly, brought their aims around a little slower every time. Eventually, the creatures would close in on them.
Hell On Earth Box Set | Books 1-6 Page 37
