In St. Louis, at least, the bombings hadn’t been entirely successful. Ross wasn’t sure if there hadn’t been enough munitions to go around, or what, but part of the deck of the William Clay Bridge—comprising the merger of Interstates 55 and 64—still hung on for dear life, even though it tilted down toward the river.
All eight lanes behind them, west and eastbound, were down. And when—if—they convinced the rest of the bridge to collapse, they’d have a nice, long elevated island to stage resupply, helicopters, and spotters to laser-designate targets for close-air support.
The fact that Fleet had been experimenting with their pirate radio signal to push zulu to the region for months now was a bit of an ‘oops,’ though.
“All but a small percentage should concentrate in the downtown area or in the park around the Arch,” one of the tech geeks back at base had stammered, unnerved by the flat look Ross gave him. “You should have minimal resistance.”
“You’re going to come along to help lay demo charges, then, right?” Foraker had grumbled. Ross grinned, then, despite himself, when the tech went pale.
The bridge was an odd mix of cleared space and crashed cars. Any drivers behind the wheel on the moment that Z-Day occurred had wrecked more often than not, and very few of those had the coordination to get out of a seatbelt or open a closed door. As Ross side-stepped around rusted heaps, still, skeletal figures seemed to watch him pass.
Most of the drivers were well and truly dead. Without any protein intake, the virus cannibalized organs and muscle tissue until there was nothing left and the nanos just ... stopped.
A fitful hand stroked at him from the open window of a Mustang, and Ross took a moment to put the thing out of its misery with the stock of his rifle before leading his men on. Whatever the thing had managed to survive on hadn’t provided enough sustenance to grant it greater mobility, but a stumble or slip made even the weakest specimen a potential source of infection.
As they advanced, he became aware of a subtle humming sound in the air. At first, he was uncertain of the source, but as Ross turned slowly in place, he realized the sound came from the northwest, in the direction of the park around the Arch.
He held up a fist for the others to hold in place. He cut in front of an empty minivan, stepping over the double row of Jersey barriers dividing the highway. A thin layer of dust coated the vehicle, but it showed no visible signs of damage. How far did you make it, the morbid aspect of his personality mused, before they pulled you down?
The wreckage was thicker in the eastbound lanes, and his movements slowed. No movement alerted him in any of the vehicles he ghosted past, but he kept his rifle up at the ready the whole way as he weaved a serpentine path to the opposite of the bridge.
The cab of a semi hung over the rail, held in place by the weight of the trailer and the back two drive wheels. He couldn’t see inside the cab to see if the driver had turned, or just twisted the wheel to avoid a crash, but the bulk of the trailer made for convenient cover. Squatting down, he checked the area under the trailer. It was empty save for a few scraps of wind-blown trash. Clutching his rifle to his chest with one hand, he scrambled underneath on both knees, using his off arm to steady himself.
The bottom of the trailer rode right along the top of the guardrail, but there was an open space between the upper rail and the next in line and offered him plenty of room to peek through while hopefully keeping him hidden from observation.
Ross’s breath caught in his throat. The open area around the Arch writhed through the night-vision goggles, and he boggled for a moment at the sheer sight of it as his eyes traced the mass back to the city streets leading down to the river.
Fleet’s efforts, if anything, had been too successful. In all his life, he’d never seen such a sea of humanity. Stumbling figures, tens if not hundreds of thousands of them, filled every open area in his line of sight. The intermittent slap of feet or rotten footwear on the ground multiplied and combined into a ripple of sound, vibrating the bridge and caressing his exposed skin. On one hand, zulu’s noise level was so great that it would provide the SEALs some cover in their efforts.
On the other, if they did anything to draw attention, an unstoppable tidal wave would come for Ross and his men. No pressure.
He made his way back to the other side of the bridge, moving faster this time. The slight scuff of his boots on the pavement was nothing in comparison to the undead mosh pit on the riverbank below.
Foraker, Nash, and Richards waited in a rough triangle, the duffel centered between them. “All clear?” Ross said.
“Crystal,” the chief replied. “Your side?”
“Not so much.” He waved them forward, forcing himself to take a slower pace as they marched into unexplored territory. The blasted area in the center of the bridge loomed, the wreckage suddenly giving way to open space. His skin crawled a bit as he exposed himself, but their luck held. They were the only things moving on the bridge.
Their advanced slowed as they neared the edge of the bridge deck, testing the pavement before taking each step. The weapon that taken this side of the bridge down had come in from the south, and three-quarters of the bridge hung at a ski slope angle. A section a bit wider than a lane at the center remained attached, and all the westbound lanes on the opposite side were down. The narrow remnant linking the two pieces of the bridge was a bottleneck, but Ross doubted they’d be able to hold it for even a minute given the numbers on the other side. “Check the opposite end.”
The SEALs shouldered their rifles and studied the length of the bridge all the way down to the ground with exquisite care. “I’ve got nothing,” Nash murmured, and the other two men agreed.
“Right,” Ross said. He slung his rifle. “Chief, you’ve got overwatch. Nash, you check the underside while Richards and I hold you.”
“No practical jokes, Lenny,” Nash said sharply. Richards looked at Ross and adopted an innocent, ‘who, me?’ expression.
“Your reputation proceeds you,” Ross explained.
Nash got on his stomach at the edge of the blast mark. Once each of the other men took hold of a leg, he slid forward and eased down into the hole. “A bit more,” he said after a moment of study. Ross and Richards obliged. It’s held this much weight for years, he told himself. A little more isn’t going to cause a collapse. Despite his self-assurance, being this close to the edge gave him the willies.
“All right,” Nash said. They backed up slowly, pulling him out. Back on his stomach, he popped up onto his feet and moved back to the duffel. “Looks easy enough. A couple of the structural members twisted in the blast and they’re holding the entire mess up. If I cut through it with some shaped charges, the weight will finish the job.” He hesitated. “There’s just one problem.”
Of course. “Let’s hear it.”
“They’re out of my reach, with you holding my legs. I need a few more feet.”
“Rope?”
“That’s what I was thinking, Lieutenant. Just—don’t let me slip.”
“Roger that,” Ross said, then gave Richards a look out of the corner of his eye. “Lenny, if you drop him, we’re all going to kick your ass.”
“Man, pull a couple of pranks and they define your whole career—” Ross’s look cut him short. “Aye, aye, sir. I’m not screwing around.”
He nodded at the other SEAL, then added, “Let’s get this right the first time, gentleman. It’s a long swim to the Gulf.”
They prepared for the task in near-total silence. It said a lot for the skill of the new additions that there were no false steps or crowding. They laid the ropes out while Nash prepared the charges. He doffed his rucksack and replaced it with an over-the-shoulder satchel to carry the explosives. While Ross and Richards secured ropes to his load-bearing harness, the chief kept up a constant scan of the base of the bridge. The clusters of wreckage broke up the line of sight, which was both good and bad. It made it more difficult for zulu to spot them, but it also kept them from seeing anything c
oming their way until it was a third of the way up the span.
Nash went leg-first into the hole this time, the other two men playing the climbing rope out until his head sipped below the rim. Ross and Richards fed him slack until he murmured into his MBITR.
“I’m here. Stand by.”
Ross adjusted his grip and wrapped some of the excess rope around his gloves. The other SEAL must have found a foothold or some other means of bracing himself because the weight on the lines was much reduced. Eliminating the possibility of a cramp or slip now was preferable to doing it when Nash was coming back up.
“I’ve got movement,” Foraker reported. His tone was matter of fact, but Ross had been around Gus long enough to interpret the undertone. Shit.
“It’s on you, Chief,” he said, eyes intent on the edge of the crater. He willed Nash to hurry up, all the while knowing that hurrying up with a demo was a shortcut to unpleasant consequences.
Foraker breathed out, his words flowing with the air and almost imperceptible. “Only one so far. He’s still in the pile-up at the base of the bridge—don’t think he’s spotted us yet.”
“Three charges left,” Nash said.
Ross wanted to look, but he didn’t dare take his attention off the task at hand. Dull fire crept up his arms, inducing the slightest amount of tremble.
Foraker’s rifle coughed, and Ross cocked his head to await the report. The chief was using heavy .308 subsonics—suppressed, the gunshot was actually quieter than the background hum of the horde. “Down.”
Ross took a deep breath before speaking. “Nash.”
“Two more.”
“Chief?”
“He’s got friends. I think all the background noise has them confused, they’re just milling—ah, fuck.” Foraker fired twice, hesitated, then twice again. “They’ve spotted us. Spear carrier in the lead.” Another shot. “Down.”
“Count?”
“Enough.”
“Richards—hand off the rope and support the chief.” Brass tinkled to the bridge deck as the chief delivered aimed single-shots with stopwatch precision. “Stand by, Nash.”
“Reloading,” Foraker said.
Ross accepted Richards’ line with a grimace. Lenny unslung his own rifle. As soon as he got his eye on his scope he muttered an inaudible curse but joined the chief’s steady firing after that slight hesitation.
“Go, Nash,” Ross managed through clenched teeth.
“Starting the last one. Drop me if you have to.”
It was nine stories to the water, and who knew what sort of debris was under the standing section. The dredgers hadn’t touched it after finding a clear sailing route under the intact center span, between two of the supports. “Not an option.”
“I didn’t know you cared, boss. I’m done.”
Ross stepped backward and heaved. Foraker dropped an empty magazine, then reached over and took hold of both lines. They heaved, and Nash’s arms popped over the edge, scrabbling for a grip. Another tug and the SEAL got his upper torso on the bridge.
“Reloading,” Richards said. “Getting sporty.”
Foraker grabbed the carry handle on the back of Nash’s LBE and heaved him the rest of the way up onto the bridge.
“Fall back,” Ross ordered. “Nash, what’s our minimum safe distance?”
The other man glanced to the east, studying the route they’d taken. “Get to that Greyhound and we’re golden.” The bus he indicated was fifty yards away, ramped up into the bed of the Ford pickup truck it had rear-ended.
“Roger that.” They left the heavy duffel of explosives and sprinted all-out down the bridge. Speed was their only advantage. Zulu had the numbers, but so long as Richards and the chief had taken down the more advanced infected, they should be able to outpace the slower variants.
Ross hit the toggle for his MBITR as he ran. “Blackfish, this is Trident. If this doesn’t work, we’re going to need immediate evac at the drop zone.”
“We’re moving already, Trident. Been keeping an eye on you. Be there in two minutes, one way or another.”
Hopefully, it would be enough. Ross skidded to a stop next to the driver’s front tire of the bus. He turned to look toward the center of the bridge. A swarm of bobbing heads filled the view of his scope. Depth perception was always a bitch with NVGs, but the blast crater seemed to be well in front of the leading edge of the pursuing horde. “Blow it, Nash.”
“Fire in the hole,” the other SEAL said, and hit the button on his radio detonator.
The explosion was almost anticlimactic—a section of bridge no more than ten feet across at the center of the span rippled, then exploded, spraying asphalt into the night sky. The surface lurched under their feet as the entire deck vibrated. Through the scope, the heads of their pursuers suddenly sunk out of view, and down at the other end, the untethered bridge deck sagged down toward the river with a herculean groan of bending steel and cracking pavement.
Their elevated island was clear, their position established. Ross let out a sigh of relief as he keyed his MBITR. “Blackfish, pass onto command—objective secure. Gateway is a go.”
Chapter Twenty-One
October 18, 2026
St. Louis, Missouri
Z-Day + 3,287
The sun was beginning to creep over the horizon as the tug pulled the first battle barge into position. Once the bow of the craft came into line with the northern border of the park, a call went out, and they began a process well-oiled by months of practice.
The team of Marines at the stern dropped anchor, while the team at the bow disconnected the tow lines. As the barge continued to drift, the bow team let go of their own anchor. Now suspended at two points, a motor at the stern drew slack out of that anchor chain. The barge slowed to a stop, then actually drifted back. Once they’d come to a complete stop, Coop eyed their position and nodded in satisfaction. The midpoint of the barge lined up almost exactly with the landmark they’d picked out.
Ahead, the tug came about and chugged back south. The squids on deck offered Coop and the rest of his Marines waves, but the sergeant was too focused on the scene on shore to give more than token acknowledgment.
Zulus packed in shoulder to shoulder, tight as sardines, to the point that every movement was more of a group oscillation than a single-minded impulse. Motion rippled across the crowd like a wavefront as the infected closest to the water tracked the sound and motion of the retreating tug. As with their first live-fire test, they paid little attention to the barge.
Well, that’ll change soon enough. The meandering trip up the river had taken most of the night, and as much as Coop had pushed his own men to rest up, he’d somehow forgotten to sleep any himself. It was moot, at this point—the proximity to the horde and the sun rising at their back ignited his adrenaline, washing away any underlying sense of fatigue.
Stahlberg called out from astern. “Sergeant Major’s moving up.”
Coop turned to watch. This was where things had the potential to get touchy. They wanted to space the barges far enough apart to avoid accidents if one came unmoored, but close enough to concentrate fire on the shoreline. There’d been a few close calls during rehearsals—they’d had to scrap a pair of barges after cutting things too close and letting them run into each other.
There were no such problems this time. The tug towing McFarlane’s barge cut lines and shifted course with room to spare, and the second barge settled into place. “Moving right along, Sergeant,” PFC Sullivan said. Coop gave the other man a nod. After the stones he’d shown the rest of the unit on their recon mission, he’d moved the other Marine well up in his mental hierarchy.
The front line of zulu tracked the second barge. A few of them even got too close to the water and went in, washed away in the current. For the most part, though, they stuck to the shore. It was almost as if they were uncertain whether the source of sound and movement was potential prey or not. Coop grinned. That’s all good, cause burning you freaks up is a hell of a lot more f
un than letting you flow out to sea.
A shadow crossed the barge, and he glanced up in time to see one of the Orca blimps crossing overhead. The bottom of the cargo capsule was a smooth plane—the insertion craft, then, carrying Major Matthews’ team. The whiz kids down in Galveston had modified the other two into bombers.
Stahlberg called out from his position at the radio. “All hands broadcast, Sergeant. General Vincent on the horn to address the fleet.”
Coop nodded but didn’t take his eyes off the shoreline. “Put it on the speakers for everyone. Sounds like we’re about to get this party started.”
The lance corporal nodded, and a faint hiss of static came over the re-purposed stadium speakers. After a moment, he could hear similar sounds from each barge in line as the rest of the unit heard the same call.
Eerily, the mass of zulu stopped moving at the sound of static, and Coop and the rest of the Marines felt the weight of a hundred thousand steel gray eyes settle onto them. That’s right, fellas. Here we are.
“Nine years ago, on this very day, a heinous and horrific assault on mankind itself brought us to the edge of extinction. Wherever you are today—Marine, sailor, civilian—know that you live and fight with the full force and hope of all survivors behind you. We stand on the brink, ready to reclaim this continent. Our fight today is not for resources or supplies. We’re coming home, with our brothers and sisters in battle on either side, but beyond that, the spirits of all the billions martyred for a despicable cause. May they look down upon us and smile as we take this small measure of vengeance for all that we’ve lost.”
An engine roared down the river, but even that wasn’t enough to overtake the volume of the speech. As Coop turned to look, the first FireStorm roared into view, a rooster tail of water spraying up behind it. It seemed unnervingly close to shore, but he reminded himself that was just perspective—it was close enough to soak down the leading edges of the horde, but not close enough to run aground. As soon as the boat cleared the William Clay Bridge, the sailors hit the pumps, and arcing streams of gasoline sprayed out onto the horde, soaking the first dozen row of figures. In the breaking light of dawn, rainbow light glittered in the rising vapor. Between the bright red boat and the bellowing voice of the General from the speakers, zulu didn’t seem to know what to do. By God, this might just work.
Z-Day (Book 3): A Place For War Page 24
