Interrupt

by Jeff Carlson

  The shouting behind them grew louder as two men scrambled beneath the complex.

  Drew moved away from her, preparing to intercept them.

  “We can’t let Marcus get outside!” she said. “That must be where he’s going. If he’s even half as smart out there as he is now—”

  He might help P.J. stay alive.

  “Marcus could be the most dangerous hybrid on the planet,” she said as Drew glanced back at her. They were stuck. It was too dark to read his face, but Emily felt his indecision in the rigid muscles of his shoulder. She could hear it in the sharp rhythm of his breathing.

  Behind them, the bunker personnel were coming in. In front of them was a madman with at least one automatic weapon. Drew couldn’t protect her from both directions, so Emily made the decision for him. She scrabbled past the nearest coil, using it to prevent Drew from stopping her.

  Marcus might help P.J. stay alive, but he could also become the Neanderthals’ greatest general.

  They’ll kill us all.

  A man rose in the darkness forty feet ahead of her. Emily saw a gleam of metal seconds before he squeezed off the entire clip in his submachine gun.

  Bullets chewed through the thin space.

  BUNKER SEVEN FOUR

  Drew jumped for another coil as ricochets thunked into the rock and dirt, filling the air with dust. Emily! he thought.

  If he knocked out the gun, he could save her.

  Sneezing, giving himself away, Drew tried to circle to Marcus’s side. The weapon had a flash suppressor—but in the shadows, orange light lanced and popped among the coils. The sustained chatter of the gun was deafening.

  Then it quit. Marcus’s weapon was empty.

  Drew heard a shifting in the darkness. Drew was twenty feet away, but he thought Marcus might have dropped the submachine gun in favor of another weapon. Then he saw Marcus’s silhouette. Marcus had retreated to the edge of the complex where there was more light, framing himself against the gap.

  To his right, beyond the complex, Drew heard running feet and yelling. Marcus slipped up into the noise. Drew might have scrabbled after him. Instead, he went back for Emily, listening for the other men. Had they retreated?

  He found Emily pressed against the ground in the dark.

  “Are you hit?” He felt along her torso and leg. Her clothes were torn and damp with blood. But he couldn’t find a wound. The blood wasn’t hers.

  “My face,” she gasped. “I’m all right. My face. Where is he?”

  Drew bent closer. Her cheek was bleeding. It wasn’t a gunshot wound. She’d taken a spray of shrapnel, probably rock kicked up the bullets. “You’re all right,” he said with more calm than he felt. She’d nearly lost an eye.

  “Where is he?” she asked.

  “He crawled out.”

  They started after Marcus, and Drew realized the gunfire might have worked in their favor. Behind him, he recognized a voice yelling, “No! No, sir!”

  Macaulay had refused to enter the crawl space. They didn’t know Marcus was free, or, if they’d put that together, they didn’t know Marcus had ducked beneath the complex before Emily and Drew. They thought Drew had fired.

  His team probably hadn’t discovered who they were chasing until a minute ago. Inside the complex, in the heat of battle, his friends would have joined the barracks personnel as a matter of course to repel the SEALs’ invasion. Now they were arguing.

  Drew heard incredible confusion in the cavern, although most of the voices weren’t behind him. A crowd had gathered between the complex and the trailers lined up against the far wall of the cavern. That was useful. As he led Emily beneath the complex to the gap where Marcus had climbed out, Drew expected to emerge behind the crowd.

  Who were they?

  He glanced through the equipment stacked against the complex. Two fat rolls of chain link, a Bobcat, and a big Craftsman tool chest blocked most of the gap.

  Ahead of him was the emergency access from the cavern into the tunnel. It was another steel door like a bank vault. It should have been closed and under guard, but four bodies lay twisted on the concrete. The door had been opened manually.

  “When I say go, run for it,” Drew whispered.

  “Marcus killed them!” Emily said. Her shock was muffled by the hand she’d clamped against her cheek.

  “No. Marcus didn’t fire until we crawled in after him,” Drew whispered. “Those men were dead before he got here.”

  What was happening in the tunnel? More fighting?

  One of the uniformed bodies was Rick Fuelling. Another man was a civilian. What a cluster fuck, Drew thought, trying to make sense of it.

  ROMEO had planned to seize the bunker in order to control all communications as they flew their teams to the destroyers in the San Francisco Bay. Meanwhile, the civilian population was under lockdown—most of them innocent—because of a few desperate men and women who’d hatched their own scheme to take control, exile the soldiers, and keep the bunker for themselves.

  When the shooting started inside the complex, Fuelling must have subdued the guards at the emergency access. Then he’d led his SEALs into the cavern. At the same time, the ringleaders of the civilian conspiracy had seen an opportunity. Apparently they’d overpowered the guards in the tunnel, taking their weapons and running to the emergency access.

  Had Fuelling schemed with the ringleaders? He might have tried to enlist them as reinforcements. If so, he’d underestimated their selfishness and their angst. Close-range gunfire had killed Fuelling, two guards, and the civilian sprawled in the emergency access. Then the civilian rebels had stormed the cavern.

  Listening to them yell, Drew thought there were more civilians in the cavern than uniformed personnel, although he had no doubt the civilians would quail when met with an organized military force. The divided soldiers and airmen would unite against the civilians. Then they would disarm or shoot them.

  Right now, no one else was coming through the emergency access.

  “Go,” Drew said, helping Emily out from beneath the complex. He brought the empty submachine gun. A bluff was better than nothing. He might find a spare clip on Fuelling.

  They charged the access, where Drew paused to rummage at Fuelling’s body. The civilian rebels had stripped him clean.

  Drew looked up and saw at least eight civilians in the cavern. They were spread to either side, taking cover as the bunker personnel hollered at them from deeper in the cave. One woman had already given up. She pressed her back against the complex wall with her hands on her head. Another man cowered against a vertical band of pipes, removing himself from the fight.

  The soldiers would get through in seconds.

  Drew chased Emily to the door. Where was Marcus?

  This far into the mountain, the tunnel narrowed to a width of fifteen feet where a knob of granite had been left to shield the emergency access. The other side of the rock would be the perfect spot for Marcus to set a trap, shooting them point-blank.

  But they couldn’t slow down. Behind Drew, the soldiers’ commands were overwhelming the civilians’ disorganized shouts.

  He and Emily sprinted into the main tunnel, where most of the civilians had stayed. Two men were helping an Army sergeant with a head wound. Ahead, a wall of crates and supplies blocked the width of the tunnel. To their left, the primary blast door was sealed.

  “What happened to Marcus?” Emily whispered.

  Drew didn’t answer.

  The guards assigned to forward points by the entrance had probably mingled with the noncombatants by now, taking new positions to secure the tunnel. The good news was those guards would stop Marcus. The bad news was Drew and Emily couldn’t wade into the pandemonium. The crowd would be like a minefield, hiding soldiers and airmen.

  Something rattled above Drew.

  “There!” he said. A desk fan dropped off the highest crate, pushed by a foot or a knee. Marcus had scaled the wide blocks of pallets and crates onto the loose items on top.

 
Drew hurried to the wall. “Stay here!” he said.

  But Emily ran with him. Blood trickled from the wounds peppering her face. The bruise in her temple had grown into a goose egg. “Boost me up,” she said, latching onto the rim of the first crate with both hands.

  Drew remembered how well she’d climbed the fence at the highway where Julie died. “Stay here,” he said. “Let them capture you.”

  “We can’t. Marcus is too dangerous to let outside. If he’s a Nim—”

  Drew set his hand under Emily’s backside and pressed the submachine gun against her. The weapon must have hurt her, but she got up. She climbed the next two layers of crates herself. Drew climbed after her. Then they were twelve feet above the floor of the tunnel.

  Below them, shadows mixed with the beams of flashlights. Drew also saw a well-lit area. About twenty people milled through the pathway and the closest sleeping area as he led Emily to his right, hurrying in the same direction Marcus must have gone.

  The long, high surface of the crates was a nightmare. Thousands of crevices lurked in the darkness. Sharp-edged bolts and wire covered the ceiling, and the uneven rock was never more than six feet above them.

  The maze was worsened by odd groupings of bikes or PVC pipes or appliances like microwave ovens and toasters. Drew’s blind spot made every other step a game of Russian roulette. He stepped on a cardboard box that collapsed. Then he crashed into the pallet next to him, a plastic-wrapped bundle of bulk-buy children’s mac and cheese in purple boxes.

  “Shit! It’s like walking on—”

  A bullhorn overrode his frustration. “THIS IS MAJOR WHARTON OF THE UNITED STATES AIR FORCE! ALL CIVILIANS GET ON THE FLOOR! GET ON THE FLOOR!”

  The voice came from the tunnel behind them. The bunker personnel had won. Now they would spread out, hunting for Drew.

  “Marcus will go for the entrance,” Emily said. “If we—”

  “LAY FACEDOWN ON THE FLOOR!” the bullhorn shouted. “LAY FACEDOWN ON THE FLOOR OR YOU MAY BE SHOT!”

  Drew clambered forward with Emily. The beam of a flashlight stabbed at them from the next room down among the pallets and crates. “Someone’s up there!” a woman cried. The beam of light danced over Emily, lost her, then lit her blond hair again.

  “Keep running,” Drew said. He braced his feet. Then he hurled his submachine gun like a large, badly weighted knife.

  Below him, the woman shrieked. Her light tipped away.

  The bullhorn continued deep in the tunnel, but Drew heard the bunker personnel running closer. Hysterical civilians quit talking as the soldiers and airmen hustled into the sleeping areas. Here and there, other loyal troops stepped forward, shouting recognition codes.

  “STAY FACEDOWN ON THE FLOOR! STAY FACEDOWN ON THE FLOOR AND YOU WON’T GET HURT!”

  Drew wasn’t sure he could reach the front of the tunnel before the other men. He caught up to Emily and took the lead again, moving faster than was wise. From one step to the next, he fell and cracked his knee.

  “We have to hurry,” he said. “The civilians aren’t going to hold—”

  Rifle fire hammered through the tunnel ahead of them. The uncontrolled burst was Marcus’s signature, emptying his weapon in seconds.

  Drew began to run again, slipping and banging through the supplies. Behind him, dozens of civilians screamed. Someone fired a pistol into the ceiling—once, twice—but if the gunman meant to silence the crowd, the shots had the opposite effect.

  The ambient light dimmed as someone knocked over a lamp in one of the sleeping areas. Drew heard another pistol shot. Hysteria inundated the tunnel again, which would impede the soldiers.

  But the rifle fire meant Marcus was at the entrance. He might have ambushed the guards from above.

  Drew was fifty feet from joining the fight. The distance between him and Emily had grown as he raced ahead, yet she didn’t call out for him.

  He dropped into a fissure between two pallets, scrambled up, and worked past a loose heap of insulated picnic coolers. He caught himself on the brink of a ten-foot drop where the crates ended.

  Their motor pool of four Humvees and a Dodge Ram lay below. Beyond the vehicles, Drew saw the trailer that served as their ready room. It contained most of the gear for their recon teams. Every light was out except one over the trailer door. Beyond it stood the military bus and iron bars they’d used to plug the mouth of the tunnel.

  He detected no movement. If there were footsteps or whispers, those sounds were lost in the reverberating screams behind him.

  The bullhorn continued. “STOP! STOP WHERE YOU ARE!”

  Drew couldn’t let Marcus go. He also didn’t want to meet the next soldiers to reach the motor pool. After the killing inside, those men would be twitchy. Drew wanted to believe Bugle would give him a chance to explain, but the bunker personnel might shoot first and ask questions later…

  But if Drew got outside, very few people could follow.

  Emily was behind him. “They’re catching up,” Drew murmured to her before he jumped. He landed with a thud and ran to the nearest Humvee.

  Emily was louder climbing down. Drew watched for a response in the dark. Nothing. They started toward the trailer before he saw the brittle glass on the floor and a human form. The Dodge Ram had been strafed across its roof and hood. An M16 lay on the concrete.

  Drew lifted the rifle and pulled the magazine. Empty. It was Marcus’s M16. The soldier had been hit in the leg, chest, and neck, killing him instantly, after which Marcus had taken the man’s weapon and sidearm.

  Emily swore softly. “That son of a bitch.”

  Drew led her to the steel door welded into their blockade. A damp wind stole through the seams in the iron and sheet metal jammed around the bus. Their shield didn’t need to be airtight, merely dense enough to deflect the pulse.

  Outside, rain pattered against the shield. Neither of them had jackets, and the temperature wouldn’t rise above fifty even in daytime. Drew glanced at the ready room. The lockers were hung with weather gear.

  Outside, distantly, a man howled. His voice was triumphant and insane. It curdled Drew’s blood.

  “Nnnnnnnnnnmh!” the man screamed.

  “That’s Marcus,” Emily whispered. “He made it.”

  Drew had only one mesh cap with him. They never left their M-string in the ready room. The armor was too precious. ROMEO and General Strickland had both ordered Drew’s team to maintain personal possession at all times. The spare M-string was in the Osprey, which they’d sheltered at Beale AFB to minimize its exposure to the pulse. The hangar was 1.6 miles away.

  Drew put his mesh cap on his skull. “We need to run to the plane,” he said.

  “I can’t.”

  “I’ll keep you from getting away.”

  “No. Oh, no.”

  “You’re not strong enough to hold on to me or I’d give you mine. But I can hold on to you.”

  Emily nodded suddenly. “Don’t let go.”

  Drew felt a roar of affection. Emily was risking her soul. If he lost her while they were outside—If she was killed—

  He kissed her and she threw her arms around his neck.

  “Clear,” a man said distinctly behind them. The soldiers would enter the motor pool in seconds.

  Drew opened the door with one hand. His other fingers were locked on Emily’s wrist. The thin corridor through the pile of iron and sheet metal went left, then right. He reached a second door.

  Rain skittered against the cement and the razor-tipped fences on either side of the tunnel entrance. To the right, above him on the mountainside, the communications array was insulated from the pulse and Neanderthal scouts by a series of tall steel clamshells and more fences—but he would need several minutes to hike to the cluster of dishes and antennae. Bugle or another man in M-string would catch him at the fences before he could disable the antennae. That meant U.S. Command would learn of ROMEO’s treason.

  He saw no sun, only the wet haze and the road curving down the rocky mou
ntainside. Yellow grass and brown shrubs clung to the slope. The runways, fences, and buildings of Beale AFB were a distant collection of geometric lines. Old barracks and family residences spilled away from the base’s southern side like white bricks.

  Emily stumbled.

  Drew hauled her up again.

  She began to fight. Her eyes rolled as she tugged and bent. She bit him like a cat. “Stop it,” he said, hoping his sharp tone would scare her, but she tossed her head and snarled, keening with a soft, insistent ferocity.

  The rain soaked through her clothes, plastering her shirt against her small breasts and her jeans to her hips. Her blond hair darkened. So did the color of her eyes.

  A 9mm Glock pistol had been abandoned on the road. Drew grabbed it, darting his eyes left and right, but Marcus wouldn’t have set up to shoot. Drew had expected to find both of the man’s weapons. Emily would have dropped them in her primitive state. Marcus was a more advanced tool user. He must have kept the rifle as a club. With luck, he’d shoot himself.

  Emily tried to run away across the hill. “Aiee!” she cried, whipping her free arm at his shoulder and face. “Aiee!”

  Drew cuffed her. The blow reopened the cuts on her cheek, but it also knocked her out. Then he bent and slung Emily’s slim frame over his shoulder.

  It wasn’t fair. Today’s events could determine whether or not Emily was a success. If she was deemed an outlaw and locked up, or if she was hurt, she would never have time to develop her cures. Now she wasn’t even a participant in the fight, so he would succeed for her.

  I swear it.

  He’d bring her to the plane before her precious mind was damaged. Then he’d track Marcus and execute the murdering son of a bitch. Marcus’s corpse might be enough for Emily and Drew to win their way back into the bunker in one piece.

  The thought gave him strength, which he needed to bear Emily’s weight. Soaking wet, she was a hundred and ten pounds. The cut on his wrist throbbed. He’d sprained his knee.

  Limping, Drew ran into the storm.

  Men emerged from the tunnel before he’d gone two hundred yards. Their voices cut into the wind. Was it Bugle and the rest of his team? They were shouting at each other, not him.