The End Time Saga (Book 5): The Holding

by Greene, Daniel

Ludlow’s far apart eyes blinked registering what he said. It must confirm at least some of what Jackson had told Ludlow about Steele. He wondered if Jackson had told his subordinates about Operation Anaconda, the blowing of the bridges in Pittsburgh that Steele had conducted or if it was only the Battle for Steel City when his command barely escaped.

  “The dead piled atop one another and the walls became insufficient to hold them until Jackson turned his artillery around.” He paused the name stinging his tongue. “We had to take drastic measures. We have to expect that we may be facing even more infected here, maybe even the living.”

  “Jackson told me about the base.”

  “So you understand. The ground is freezing, and if we don’t finish this soon, we won’t be prepared for the long winter.”

  “I will get everyone that isn’t sick or injured to help dig.”

  “Thank you, Major. We need to stand together on this.”

  “We do. My men and I are happy to be back in the fold.”

  Steele nodded. Are they? “We’re happy to stand with you.”

  “I’ll gather the men and see what we can do.”

  “Carry on.”

  Ludlow disappeared into the barn, and soldiers emerged slowly from its interior with shovels and picks.

  Steele watched them leave and go into the trenches. Something tickled the back of his neck. It was a feeling, but one that he knew was perceived and not actually there.

  He turned.

  The pastor stood outside a cabin watching him. The man’s long face was emotionless, and dour lines ran along his mouth. The pastor ducked back into a cabin. Steele studied the door for a moment as if he expected an answer. What are you up to, old man?

  ALVARADO

  La Crescent, MN

  The blowing wind was a blessed curse. The howls of the wind masked the scrunch of snowshoes on the top layer of the snowpack. The elements were a neutral player in the contest between the living and dead, beating both sides with indifferent consistency. It was felt more by the living, cutting through layers of clothes with ease, but hindered the dead by bogging them down to a crawl.

  From the bitter sting of the frozen air, she knew it must be in the single digits. Her eyes had a deep chill inside them as if they were freezing all the way back into her brain.

  Snowdrifts dominated the small town, sweeping on buildings and gusting over entire city streets unmolested by man. Despite the snowshoes that kept the Marines mostly above the drifts, the trek proved hard going, and their progress was slow.

  When they had traveled a few blocks away from the school, Butler kicked off his part of the mission. The diversion. Gunfire barked away behind them, popping off like a fireworks display. The dead veered in the direction of the rapid small-arms fire and away from her squad.

  It took her squad almost an hour to go over a mile between hiding, killing, or evading the dead. They took turns hauling the sleds, wrapping the rope over their shoulders and torso. They didn’t pull long like human sled dogs, ten minutes tops before the sled haulers were exhausted and ready to trade out.

  Sergeant Riddle’s boxy frame led in front. He took them toward a warehouse and drew them to a halt with a closed fist. He pointed at a long cut in the terrain of a dead forest leading east toward La Crosse.

  The sprinkle of gunfire hammered away faintly in the distance.

  Alvarado snowshoed closer to Riddle. He dipped his head around the corner. Steam fogged from behind his balaclava.

  “These look like where the railroad tracks should be.” He aimed a finger for Alvarado. “Once we go down these tracks, it won’t matter about Butler. They’ll be able to spot us out in the open.” Alvarado did the same as Riddle, quickly peering around the corner. He was right. The tracks were surrounded by a thin perimeter of trees and open frozen lakes before they reached the river. Easy line of sight even for the dead.

  “Catch your breath. In five, we go fast.” The thought of moving in view of the enemy made her heart rate drum harder than it already was under the exertion of her pack in the freezing cold. Her balaclava and gear hid any fraction of worry she could have shown her men. She knelt, taking a rest, doubling up on her time to say a silent prayer to God. God give us the strength to overcome this. If you are there, pick us over them. We are your Marines.

  The five minutes passed with a swirling dust of flurries. She wasn’t sure if it helped to be sitting for so long, but Riddle led the squad on the tracks at a quick jog. The trees on either side of the rail did nothing to impede the dead. Hundreds of dead, lifeless eyes turned their way as the rifle squad ran against the tide.

  They awkwardly ran through the snow, the white heaps sucking the energy from them with every footstep. The Marines manning the sleds fell behind. The speed they needed to survive was not an option with the equipment involved. Alvarado turned, running back.

  “Go hot,” she commanded. She placed her M4A1 to her shoulder and unleashed a controlled burst of fire.

  In response, gunfire rippled from her Marines. Nothing crazy, not one wasting ammunition that was a premium in the field. Steady, premeditated, and efficient, taking only shots that were high percentage.

  She made it back to one of the sleds and took the rope harness from one of the Marines. He collapsed into the snow, panting.

  “Come on!”

  He pushed himself upright and awkwardly jogged in his snowshoes.

  Dead closed in from either side of the tracks as they moved like a slowly tightening vice.

  The rope cut into her body as she tugged and pulled, trying to gain both momentum and leverage at the same time. She was small and the sled was heavy, the weight of it sinking it into the snow. They made it to the first railroad track bridge and crossed a frozen section of river. The dead beneath them flowed seamlessly, a river themselves.

  “Cease fire!” she called forward, breathing heavily. As the tracks elevated, the infected were squeezed into the narrow funnel, stalling their attack and removing angles of pursuit.

  There were four railroad bridges that traversed the Mississippi River, and Lieutenant Colonel Eldridge had only blown the bridge closest to La Crosse before he’d been killed. The Marines trudged forward with the smallest bit of breathing room, snowshoeing above the hordes.

  They crossed two more railroad bridges until they reached the center of the last bridge. The metal of the tracks was splintered and twisted, a gaping hole ranging almost forty feet where intact track used to be.

  Eldridge had picked the juncture nearest La Crosse because the dead would be funneled to French Island just off the shore of La Crosse, effectively trapping them for easy bombardment. No air support ever came, and now, those dead roamed free across the ice. Eldridge’s prudent move blocked the Marines safe access into La Crosse unless they wanted to run the gauntlet below, which would be the same as running through the ocean and not getting wet.

  The river of ice rasped beneath the feet of the dead while the few dead that had followed them, struggled their way down the elevated tracks. Some would slip and fall from the sides, falling before crushing the dead below. They weren’t lucky enough for them all to meet this fate, and the determined dead doggedly marched upon the trapped Marines.

  Alvarado knew this was an obstacle they’d have to traverse. Her Marines took firing positions, aiming their guns backward and forward.

  Riddle’s voice grunted behind her. “Major.”

  She turned. “One-rope bridge!”

  “Someone has to make the run,” Riddle said. His eyes scanned his Marines, choosing which of his men would face certain death.

  Odom raised his hand. “I’ll do it.”

  Riddle nodded, the relief clear around his eyes that his man went willingly instead of being ordered. “It’s got to be fast. Once those dead get close, we are going to have to go hot. Then the gig is up.”

  “I can do it.” The tall Marine slipped off his pack and placed them on one of the sleds.

  “Two hundred yards,” said anothe
r Marine, facing the dead on the tracks.

  “Fast,” Alvarado said. “That carbine is just extra weight.” She stuck out her hand. Odom didn’t question her but handed over his primary means of survival.

  Riddle secured a knotted rope to a steel girder of the bridge and handed the other end to Odom. He slipped it around his body. Three Marines took hold of the rope to lower him down.

  “Fast.” She gazed at the young man, knowing the peril he placed himself in was guaranteed.

  “Yes, ma’am.” He peered downward for a moment at the dead and ice. Horrid moans were a decibel softer than a roar as they marched for Butler’s base.

  She joined her Marines and wrapped her hands around the rope hoisting Odom. Foot by foot, they lowered him down like they were going to go fishing for the dead with the Marine as bait. The rope swayed in the wind, and the three Marines struggled beneath the onslaught whipping their fellow Marine.

  After seconds of trying to keep the rope steady, they flew backward as all the weight disappeared. Alvarado forced herself to stand then ran over to the jagged edge of concrete, wood, and metal that made up the blown train tracks. Leaning dangerously off the side of the tracks, she stared down. The rope went taut and unraveled as Odom ran.

  Odom had released his harness early rather than be lowered into the ranks of the dead. He wrapped the rope around his arm as he sprinted. The dead nearby turned as he scampered past. The woodland-camouflaged Marine weaved through the Zulus with the agility of a running back making his way to the end zone through hundreds of defenders.

  He forearmed one into the ice and spun as another grabbed at his arm with bony fingers. The cluster of dead drifted in the direction of the fresh bait.

  A Marine spoke loud behind her. “A hundred yards, Major. Requesting to open fire.”

  She turned around, the dead on the tracks behind them had made determined progress.

  “Open it up!”

  M4s banged as they fired behind her. She was less worried about the dead to the rear and more worried about her Marine dodging across the icy river. If he didn’t make it, they would have to fight their way off the elevated tracks and backtrack or lower themselves down one by one into the waiting frostbitten hands of the dead.

  Odom stumbled on the ice, falling hard on his hands.

  Get up. Get up.

  The dead closed ranks around him. She joined Riddle and the other Marines, firing her M4A1 into the mass of dead around him. The Marine fought with fury, forcibly separating himself from the dead. He leapt over the fallen dead and scrambled up the other side of the railroad tracks.

  She took aim down her sights. The wind and the dead howled fiercely together in her ears. It wasn’t that Odom couldn’t outrun the dead; it was that he had to stop along the tracks and tie the rope so the rest of them could get across. She depressed her trigger like she’d done more times than she could count, each shot a little easier than the last. Her M4A1 carbine’s extractor pinged with relief of releasing its projectile. She pressed the trigger in a fluid motion again and again. Sounds of gunshots surrounded her but played second fiddle in her mind, like white noise from a war zone with her gunshots the only accents. Her sole thought was to keep the infected gaping mouths off Odom’s back.

  Destroyed Zulus collapsed on the slopes of the frozen river embankment. Falling dead plunged into the others, turning them into a tangle of arms and legs. When she missed, another Marine would take down the infected at a frantic pace.

  Odom haphazardly tied the rope to a buttress on the other side. He heaved as he yanked slack out of the one-rope bridge.

  The dead surged on the tracks behind him. She couldn’t take a shot without risking putting a round through Odom. He went hand-to-hand with the Zulus, striking and kicking.

  Riddle growled. “Fuck!”

  Watching Odom struggle, Alvarado stared in disbelief for too long. She fleetingly glanced behind. More dead had found their way along the bridges toward the trapped Marines. Time was against them. The infected would eventually reach them. They would run out of ammunition then it would get sticky as they went hand-to-hand, but the jaws of death would take them one by one. Someone else had to finish what Odom had started.

  “Hey! Hey!” a voice shouted from afar.

  She turned back. Odom slid down on his back into the frozen river. He waved his hands at the dead. They slipped and fell after him. He gave one a kick to the skull as he flagged them down. The dead followed. He turned and jogged north of the river only fast enough to keep them interested. Christ, bless that Marine.

  It would mean something; it just had to. She ignored the fact that Odom ran to his brave death. His sacrifice had to count even if it was just to kill more of the ugly bastards.

  She tugged down hard on the line. It had little give under her hand. They must do their part and quick, or everything was a waste of good Marines.

  “Get those sleds rigged up. Riddle, you and Harry first.”

  Riddle hooked himself to the rope along with Harry.

  “Quiet on the other side if you can.”

  He nodded quick and jumped up, wrapping his thick arms over the line. He grunted as he swung both legs around the rope. With quick movements, he moved his hands one over the other as he pulled himself over the frozen river and dead alike. Harry latched on and went close behind him. The rope sagged under their combined weight.

  When they reached the other side of the blown bridge, four Marines hastily attached the sleds to the rope. O’Bannon hopped out in front and dragged the sleds behind him, tugging the sleds with jerking movements.

  Everyone operated with such fast self-preserving haste that she almost forgot the Marines watching their backs.

  Corporal Johnson shouted over his shoulder. “Two mags left!”

  As more and more Marines filed along the singular rope bridge, the dead had made headway on the tracks. Their heads bobbed in a mass of incoming death. She studied them for a moment. Their disgusting existence made her want to puke and then systematically destroy each and every one of them.

  “Grenade them,” she ordered.

  Johnson looked back at her. “Ma’am, this bridge is fucked up, could take us all down.”

  She marched to the rear of her rifle squad and ripped an M67 fragmentation grenade off her vest. It was roughly the size of a green baseball with a safety lever running from the top along the side. Holding it firmly in her throwing hand, she looped a finger through the pin and tugged it free. She rolled it forward like she was trying to bowl, keeping it on the railroad bridge. It skipped and bounced into the air then was trampled under dozens of feet. Marines took cover. She ducked down, covering her head. Two more seconds passed. It all depended on if the fuse was put in on a Friday or not.

  The grenade burst in the center of the infected mass. The sound was deafening even with her ears covered. Bodies and limbs in the immediate area were thrown into the air with indiscriminate violence. The dead flew from the tracks, plummeting into a bloody mess on the river ice. Guts and chunks rained on the dead below.

  She stood before the rest of her Marines, taking a moment to scan the river. The Zulus within earshot of the grenade blast turned in her direction. Bought a bit of time.

  “Get on that line.” She pointed at the single rope.

  The thick Marine grimaced and stood. “Major, more are coming.”

  “A lot more,” she said. “Now get on that line.”

  The rear two Marines charged past her, linking themselves on the line. Her grenade had put a gaping hole into the dead that was beginning to fill again, like a festering wound with pus.

  She put her carbine to her shoulder and fired ten shots in methodical precision.

  The last two Marines scaled over the to the other side, suspended on ropes above the river.

  Her feet grated churned snow as she made her way to the line. The rope had been tied higher than she’d remembered. Behind her, the dead gave a victory moan. She chanced a glance back. They closed in. No
time for a harness. Fight or flight. She growled and jumped up, clutching the line, her M4A1 dangling to the side. Wrapping both legs around the rope, her numb fingers clutched with exhausted urgency. She scooted out into the expanse, her unwieldy snowshoes clanking together as she hurried.

  A few feet from her, the Zulus reached the edge of the remaining tracks. The Zulus were always faster than she thought they should be. Fingers grasped her snowshoe. She kicked at its dead weather-beaten face, and it fell from the edge, unable to reason that it was ever in any danger. It smacked the ice with a sickening thud. The dead in the back drove the ones in front spiraling to the jaggedness below. In twos and threes, they tumbled off the edge. Limbs splintered, heads exploded, and bodies were impaled on the chunks of solid river just as hard as concrete.

  She switched her grip so her elbow was locked around the line and hauled her way across. With no fresh distractions, the dead beneath her marched for Butler’s last stand, all except the ones on the tracks behind her who committed suicide trying to reach her before plummeting to their deaths.

  The rope swayed. She bent her neck backward and stared upside down. The Marines were setting up their sleds and dealing with any interested Zulus with quiet surprise. Why is my line swaying? Every Marine knows how to tie those knots. Her mind shot to Odom. He’d disappeared down the ice, a couple hundred of the staggering Zulus close behind him.

  She worked her feet across, propelling herself. The rope dipped a few feet and she gasped in surprise, clutching her wrist even harder. Riddle and the other Marines had noticed.

  Riddle yelled with a cupped mouth. “Bridge is going!”

  Squinting, she searched for the line issue, trying to gauge how much time she had left. The girder bent forward, and she dropped another few feet, causing the line to sag. Her stomach pitched inside her gut.

  Her fingers dug even farther into the flesh and bone of her wrist. She spied down at the Zulus that were much closer than they were a second prior. Only twenty feet separated her from certain death.

  They shuffled beneath her, oblivious to her presence suspended right above them. They shifted and swarmed below, driven like an infectious sea of maggots. Her men couldn’t do a thing. If they pulled the line back toward them, the girder would break and she’d fall into the horde, a tumbling meatball from the sky into their waiting mouths.