The End Time Saga (Book 5): The Holding

by Greene, Daniel

  As the night went on, the well-wishers from Hacklebarney drifted home on horses and sleighs. Even the Sable Pointers went back to their barn for bed. The soldiers from Ludlow’s command ate and drank as much as anyone. The music continued, but eventually, only the diehard drinkers and restless souls were left.

  Trent’s eyes drooped from the effects of alcohol. His speech came out in slurs. “Hey, you wanna get out of here?”

  She was feeling it too, but she held her liquor with the best imbibers. She grabbed his face by the scruffy cheeks and drew him in close. She kissed his lips. He tasted like beer and his tongue lingered too long in her mouth like it had found a home and fell asleep. She drunkenly shoved him away. He blinked, attempting to keep from toppling over.

  The words should have felt silly, but she whispered them with the maximum level of seduction. “How about you head back to the barn?” She hiccupped with a smile. “Warm that pile of hay up a bit. I’ll be over in a few minutes.”

  He gave her a mock salute, his words slurring. “Yes, ma’am.” He teetered as he made for the barn doors, now closed to keep in the heat.

  She threw back a shot of whiskey, looking around at the other poor souls who couldn’t find solace in the bottom of a bottle. She picked up a fifth of whiskey and swaggered over to the leftover pig. She piled all manner of meat on a big plate. She waved at the banjo player as she walked toward the door. He gave her a drunken once-over as if considering her as a viable option.

  “Go home to your wife, Nowlton.”

  “Trying to avoid another kid.”

  She laughed and leaned into the barn doors, letting them slide open.

  The night was dark and cold. Snow flurries trickled down from the sky like dizzy white dandelion seed parachutes. The soft warm glow of a dying fire leaked out of the Reynolds farmhouse. Light gray smoke billowed from cabin chimneys.

  A half-filled bottle of whiskey sat on a table near the door. She dipped back in and snatched it. She raised it in the air to the men still lingering in the barn reception. “Good night, you heathens.”

  Her boots crushed into packed snow. She wavered a bit as she trod down the beaten snowy track toward her barn. She swaggered as she walked, her hips moving back and forth. The faint moan of the dead seeped over the water, a collection of mournful voices, unknowing why they called and only that fresh victims awaited them over the river.

  She stopped. She couldn’t see them in the night, but she knew they were there. Crowding, searching, waiting for their opportunity to kill everyone still living. She yelled across the water. “Good night, douchebags!” She hefted the liquor high in the air. The liquid sloshed around inside its glass container. She turned the container bottoms up and let the fiery liquid burn down her chest and wiped her mouth on a coarse sleeve.

  She zigged and zagged until she reached a barn. Two men, nearly frozen to death, were standing guard outside. Scarf-wrapped faces turned her way as she neared.

  “Hey,” she said.

  “Tess,” came a muffled voice from the closest man. His name was Jon or Wes or something. He’d kept to himself since joining around Spring Lake. Nice enough guy, just nothing remarkably distinctive about him.

  “I need you to let me in there.” Her words came out a little more slurred than she’d expected.

  “I’m sorry. Captain Steele said no one is to go in or out.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “I am acting on his behalf.”

  “He said no one.”

  “‘Cept me. Open it up, Jon, or I’ll clock ya.”

  “It’s Wes.”

  “I don’t care who ya are. I’ll only be a minute.”

  His eyes darted back and forth, trying to see if anyone would notice. “One minute, Tess.”

  “One minute.”

  Wes and his partner counted to three and hoisted a heavy wood beam, setting it to the side.

  Tess pulled on one of the sliding doors and grunted as it rolled open. A couple of bikers glanced at her. Most were asleep. A heavyset bearded man stood slowly.

  “You can close it behind me,” she said to Wes.

  “What if something happens?”

  “It won’t.”

  Wes shoved the door closed. More of the Red Stripes got to their feet.

  Thunder’s voice cut the darkness. “What do you want, you treacherous little cunt?”

  “Now that’s no way to treat an old friend.”

  Fists appeared at his side.

  “I didn’t come here to fight. I came here to make peace.”

  “Peace? You fucking got us arrested.”

  Tess slung her pack off her back.

  “Let’s fucking brain her,” came a voice from the crowd.

  “We know how that ends. The guards come in and shoot everyone, and if they don’t, you know Steele will. I brought some food. Bread, pork, and for you.” She threw the half-filled bottle in the air and Thunder caught it. “Some booze.”

  A grin appeared beneath his shadowed gray beard. He unscrewed the cap and took a swig. “Tastes good.”

  “You want to break us out of here too?”

  “Nah, what you did was rotten.”

  Thunder took another swill down. “It was planted. We didn’t even know it was there.”

  She eyed him for a moment. The Red Stripes dug into their food with the loud smacking of lips of hungry men.

  “We didn’t do it. Why would I lie?”

  “Why does anyone lie? Cause they got caught. Merry Christmas, Thunder.”

  “Merry Christmas. Suppose this means I’ll see you on the other side.”

  She smirked. “What other side.” She hauled hard on the door. Both Wes and his partner shouldered their guns as she stepped out.

  “Jesus. It’s just me.”

  “We didn’t know. You were in there for longer than a minute.”

  “Eat a dick, Wes. I was giving them food. It’s Christmas for God’s sake.”

  He lowered his rifle, complaining beneath his breath. They rolled the doors back into place and set the heavy wood beam overtop.

  “It’s been fun, but this lady has to burn off a little steam.” She walked down the line of barns all the way to the one holding the Sable Pointers.

  She crept through the sleeping bodies of her people. The fire burned low near the center of the barn, only a lick of flame daring to dart out of the pit. Her footsteps creaked across the wood. She reached her corner and swept away her tarp that acted as a door to her small piece of worn wood-planked floor.

  Trent’s body lay in her makeshift bed of blankets and sleeping bags. He was topless and his skin was pale in the dark, a field of fresh snow. She tiptoed closer to him. “If you think for a second you’re gonna pass out on me, you got a long night ahead of you.”

  He didn’t stir, only kept his backwoods serenity. She stripped off her firearm shoulder harness, letting it drop to the floor. Drunken fingers fumbled around the button of her pants and she kicked them off into a heap in the corner. She crawled into the mass of blankets and ran a hand down his chest and abs all the way to his crotch. He was not ready for her. She fondled him for a moment, and her hand was met with limpness. His skin was cool to the touch.

  “Come on, dude. You couldn’t wait a few minutes for this top-notch shit?” Her drunken disappointment was zapped by sudden concern. Had this lackwit good old boy drank himself into alcohol poisoning? Fucking lightweight.

  “Trent?” she whispered. She took her hand away from his member and grabbed his cheeks. Bristly whiskers jabbed her hand. His head was limp and heavy. She leaned her face close to his. “Drink too much?” His blank and glassy eyes stared at her, no life behind them.

  “Trent?” she said louder, alarm rising in her voice. The floor betrayed something lurking in the shadows. She peered into the corner. It was darker than it should have been, even in the night. Rolling out of the blankets, she lunged for her gun. Fingernails scratched the coarse plank, bending and chipping, as she grasped for where it used to be
.

  A black bag went over her head and pulled tight over her mouth. Her hands went to her neck and something thumped off the top of her head. She squeezed her eyes open and closed but could see nothing, heightening her struggle. Her feet kicked out, searching for anything to strike. Iron-like hands gripped around her ankles. The hard object banged off her skull again and her vision went black as the night.

  THE PASTOR

  Camp Forge, IA

  “On this blessed morn, may Christ guide our hand and our aim as we strike down the corrupt and the wicked in his name. Amen.” The pastor dipped his head in reverence to the Lord. A quiet chorus of amens echoed from his men.

  The fire died to embers behind him. His men had been prepared since the wedding feast the night before. They had been prohibited from drinking. All weapons were close, and as the last revelers went to bed or passed out, his men gathered in the waxing light. They had met for prayer in his cabin as they readied their souls for battle.

  The door opened and cool air rushed inside. The flames wavered behind him with the entrance of more oxygen. Luke and Peter dragged in a hooded form, but he already knew who it was: the most wretched of the unbelievers but also the one who would discover the Red Stripes’ supposed transgression.

  “She’s out,” Luke said. He ripped off her hood. Her face slumped to the side and her mouth drooped with a gag wound tightly around her head. “Slipped her one of these to make sure she don’t complain.” He shook a bottle of pills.

  “Good work. The War Machines will finish her preparations for purification.”

  With the chaos of planning the wedding feast, men and women frequently came and went in the camp. It hadn’t been hard to sneak in some of the War Machines dressed in regular clothes and disperse them throughout his ranks inside the base. The men were talented in all means of violence and strengthened his forces for their attack.

  Her eyes cracked and she mumbled a soft, “Fuck you.” Her head rolled from side to side, and she settled to keeping her chin to her chest as if it were preventing her from spinning and staring through the tops of her eyebrows. “You’ll never get away with this.”

  Luke dug a hand into her short hair and yanked her head exposing her neck. A knife glimmered in his hand, and he held its point to her throat.

  Peter put a hand on Luke’s. “No.”

  The pastor eyed his second in command with surprise. His disciples stared each other down in malice. Luke licked dry lips. “Got a crush?”

  “No.” He squeezed Luke’s wrist, his knuckles turning white.

  “He’s right, Luke.” The pastor lifted a graceful hand to stop him. “She still has an important part to play.”

  “I won’t do nothing for you shitbags,” she whispered.

  The pastor raised his chin like a commanding parent. “You will do as I command.” He walked to her leaning in. “Your act will be the biggest betrayal of them all because you will have led him to his demise.”

  Her head wobbled as she shook it. “No.”

  He forced her chin upward with a skeletal finger. “You did. You convinced him to arrest his most powerful ally for nothing.”

  “No, Thunder’s medicine.”

  “You mean my medicine.” His eyes glanced at his disciple over her shoulder. “Brother Luke has many talents. It wasn’t hard for him to sneak in and hide it when they were out working, but you see, none of it would have mattered if you weren’t suspicious. I know you, Tess, like the Lord knows you. You are untrusting at best. I knew that you would go looking for evidence, so I gave you what you wanted to find. I never thought it would be this easy to have you turn on each other, but your lack of faith made it extraordinarily easy.”

  Her eyes blinked, glassy with fogginess. “No.” Spit dribbled from her lips.

  “Yes. You’ve done this. You’ve brought about his fall.”

  Her head rolled upright. “Go to hell.”

  “I have confidence that God will accept his most humble servant with open arms on eagle’s wings.”

  An echo of amens perforated the cabin, resounding from wall to wall.

  “Prepare her. Luke and Peter stay. I need you.” With a flick of his wrist, they dragged her away.

  “Is everyone ready?”

  Peter’s curled head bobbed. “Yes, Father.”

  “On the signal, what is our sequence of attack?”

  “Luke will kill the guards by the gate and open them for the rest of the War Machines. While he does that, Matthew will execute the Red Stripes and quickly move to the Sable Pointers.”

  “Remember, they will be cowed with the loss of their leaders and fighters. Only kill those that resist.”

  “What of the soldiers?” Luke asked.

  “They are weaponless, but gun them down before they can cause trouble.”

  Luke bowed his head. “Yes, Father.”

  “I want Steele alive if possible, dead just as good, but if he can be taken, I want him. His soul is in dire need of cleansing.”

  “Yes, Father,” the men said in tandem.

  “All is in order. With the dawn comes victory. Pray with me until we are ready.”

  All his men bowed their heads, and he smiled, looking out among the tops of their skulls. “We will have a great triumph on this most holy of days. The blessed birth of a new world.”

  ALVARADO

  La Crosse, WI

  Major Alvarado peered through the half-inch gap of the heavy sliding warehouse door. She kept her eye close to the crack, trying to catch a glimpse of the sled. If it was gone, she would be leading men to their deaths. God, hold that sled in place. Your Marines need it, she prayed.

  Something passed near the crack. Instinctually she jerked her head away from it, her heart skipping a beat. Being close to an enemy never got any easier. The grind of hard rotted flesh on metal scratched along as the infected marched toward the river.

  Her Marines clustered behind her silently prepared to strike hard and fast. Even Sergeant Riddle in his makeshift wooden-framed stretcher on the concrete floor looked ready to fight. The Marines had crafted a litter out of the warehouse pallets to make it easier for them to haul the wounded sergeant. If needed, it could be pulled behind one man while the other fought. It would be painful for Riddle but less painful then being eaten alive, watching the infected tear chunks of flesh and muscle from his body.

  She whispered, “When we open this door, we move fast and silent. Only go hot if necessary. Make time for Finch and Foster to cross. Then we move for the sled. Affirm?”

  Heads bobbed in her direction. Gear had been traded between the men. Foster and Finch gave most of their extra ammunition to the men staying with Alvarado. It was a hard ask for Marines, but they did so willingly, knowing their brothers needed it more. Carrying the wounded could be the best way to survive or end up a walking corpse.

  “On my mark.” She ground her teeth in anticipation.

  On either side of Riddle, Finch and Foster hoisted him airborne between them.

  “Jesus, Riddle, what have you been eating?” Foster said.

  Riddle grunted as they adjusted their hands. He held his M27 across his body. It would be difficult for him to hit anything while getting jostled around, but if it came down to it, she knew he would be slinging rounds.

  We are all in for a treacherous run. Hope their PT is up to snuff. Three…two…one… In a deep voice she sounded off, “Move.”

  Rasmussen lowered a shoulder and rolled the door open wide enough for two people abreast to pass through. The sky was a bland gray, the sun unable to provide much of anything to the frozen earth below. The destroyed surface of the frozen river propelled stray mini icebergs into a growing pile on the still solid ice.

  A Zulu stumbled past the door, clothing tattered and loose, unaware how close living flesh resided. It was followed by others with corrupted gray skin, hair hanging in clumpy soiled strings.

  The Marines charged with surprising speed. She wouldn’t attribute it to fear but rather fer
vor to accomplish the mission, the fast necessity that kept a soldier moving in combat when a position wasn’t safe.

  O’Bannon was the first Marine through. He went straight for the solid surface that hadn’t been shattered by the explosives. Zulus splashed in the water where the weakened ice had broken beneath their weight. He clubbed a Zulu with the stock of his weapon. A damp thwack sounded, and the infected fell like tree limbs sinking into the snow, tree limbs that leaked almost black blood from fractured craniums.

  Alvarado was the last one through. She cross-checked an infected with a crack as it rounded the corner, punching its thin nose back into its brain. Their snowshoes scraped over the frozen white while the dead were hampered with every step.

  They ran over the ice that creaked beneath them in complaint about each excessive pound of American Marine on its surface. The man in front of her slipped, and she grabbed him to keep him steady. He caught himself, and they continued their sprint.

  Her breath came in fits and gasps as they closed in on the sled, the freezing air zapping her lungs like electromagnetic pulses. The Marines brought themselves to an abrupt halt almost forty feet from the explosives.

  The ice was darker here, and it was clearly unlike the packed together white ice they’d been destroying and dying on. Cracks splintered the ice like new tributaries, threatening to break apart any minute. The Marines set a quick perimeter, guns facing all around.

  She hustled between them.

  “What’s the problem?” she shouted.

  “Ice is cracking,” Johnson said. The big man stood the farthest from the weakened surface, knowing that he of all people was in the most danger of falling through.

  Finch and Foster continued to sprint over the ice to the other side, Riddle bouncing between them.

  The answer was an easy one despite the challenge of the task. Alvarado stripped off her weapons and gear, letting them drop.

  Odom’s head swiveled between her and the dead. “They’re closing in!”