Arisen, Book Nine - Cataclysm

by Michael Stephen Fuchs

  And he could not allow that to happen.

  Mann dropped his knife, mustered his strength, and managed to twist and roll over on his back. The crazed dead bastard let him go for half a second but then was back on him, all teeth and claws and inexplicable undead strength, and it was just tearing him to pieces. Mann didn’t even have space to breathe.

  Worst of all, as he turned to face it, he could see now it was one of his own – a young RMP private who used to be named Harry. But Mann could only tell from the remains of the uniform and the nametape. The face was now basically unrecognizable – a pale and sore-covered mask of horror and hostility.

  Keeping one hand up to guard his own face, Mann managed to get his pistol clear with the other and started triggering off. But with Foxtrot Harry’s hands clawing at his throat, he couldn’t raise it high enough – firing into its midsection, the only effect of which was to empty its guts over him, viscera and intestines and probably flesh from its most recent meals. And the creature was still going crazy, lacerating his arms and face and torso.

  The slide of the pistol locked back, empty, and there was no way he was going to get it reloaded – and the Foxtrot’s windmilling arms knocked it from his grasp anyway. Mann brought both hands up to try to protect his face and neck. But that was going to buy him a couple of seconds at best.

  And he thought once again:

  I can’t let this thing out of here.

  * * *

  “Look,” Jameson said finally, to the Americans. “I’ll talk to our handful of remaining pilots and see if anything can be done about organizing another flight. But don’t hold your breath – we’ve got our own enormous set of problems here. I expect when my relief gets here they can sort something for you.”

  And with that, as if on cue, a faint but rising sound caused Jameson to turn to face out where the windows used to be. And it was exactly what he’d thought it was – what he’d been hoping and praying for all day.

  Outside, just above and beyond the hulking shape of the main aviation hangar, he could now see two big fat Chinook helicopters, both fully loaded judging by how heavily they lumbered through the air, flying in formation as they slowed and descended, majestically flaring in to land.

  It was Jameson and One Troop’s relief.

  Oh, thank fuck for that.

  * * *

  With a last pulse of strength, Mann reached down and pulled a grenade clear of his webbing. With shaking, blood-slick fingers, battling to control his body in this nightmare that had become his whole reality, he managed to get the pin out, then let the spoon pop, and finally clutched it to his chest. He knew that in this enclosed area, the channelled and intensified blast was guaranteed to finish both of them.

  It was a perfect last act – noble and suitable.

  And it would keep this thing from getting out and turning anyone else.

  But then the creature’s head lunged forward and actually tried to bite his face off. Involuntarily, out of pure autonomous reaction, Mann’s hands went back to his face to try to protect it. And the Foxtrot’s flailing arm knocked into his own, batting the grenade hard, like he was playing world championship handball.

  The grenade broke free from his grip and skittered away at high speed, banging and scraping along the steel grate behind them.

  And Mann realized too late that he should have radioed in first. He should have reported this threat, but he was so frantic to get to and help his friend. Now he pressed his radio button and tried to speak, but nothing came out. Nothing but a gurgle. And now he knew what his best mate’s last seconds had been like. Trying to use the radio with his throat torn out.

  The skittering sound behind him finally stopped – as the grenade fell away through the open section of grate and into open space.

  And then it clanged twice on the steel floor of the underground area – right in the middle of all the fuel tanks.

  * * *

  Well, Jameson thought, regarding the ungainly Chinooks, they’re as majestic as two flying school buses can be. But the incoming flight was still one of the most beautiful sights he had ever seen.

  He pulled off his radio headset without signing off and turned away from that beautiful view to face in toward the JOC. He was about to raise his voice and issue what would be his very last orders as temporary commander of CentCom, and of all British forces in the south. He had just opened his mouth to do so— when the entire building shook around him like the start of an earthquake, and a second later he felt hot air and particulate debris blasting in thorough the already blown-out windows at his back.

  He spun around and ran to the window.

  Out at the hangar and helipad, a giant fireball was rising up into the sky.

  And as Jameson watched stunned and open-mouthed, the gigantic gout of flame rolled right up into the two descending Chinooks and consumed them.

  Oh my fucking God, he thought, his mouth hanging open.

  And as Major Jameson looked on, utterly helpless, he saw first one Chinook and then the other tip over in the air from the force of the rising explosion, then roll on its side, break in half at the waist, erupt in flame – and then, turning the stomach of every person watching the horrifying and hypnotic sight…

  Simply fall out of the burning sky in slow motion.

  He Is Legend

  Camp Lemonnier - Beneath the South Guard Tower

  Handon gritted his teeth. He reached out and put his hand on Henno’s rifle barrel again – knowing full well he might not get the hand back this time. Looking at the side of Henno’s face, jaw stubbled with blond whiskers and a few gray ones, and set like the cliffs of Dover, Handon said:

  “Staff Sergeant. Stand down.”

  This was all happening with a goddamned 7.62 minigun pointed down on them from a handful of feet away in that guard tower. And with the rest of the team dispersed behind them and under cover – but the two of them standing in the open, in the long shadows cast by the early morning sun behind the buildings.

  Hesitating not at all, Henno firmed up his grip on his rifle, both on the pistol-grip and out on the stock, pivoted at the hips – and gave Handon a powerful shove.

  “The FUCK off me, Handon,” he hissed.

  That shove would have been enough to knock most men on their asses. But Handon was ready for it, and had his back foot planted. He glared back and said, “This is not the time or place, Henno.”

  “You’re fucking telling me.”

  And with that, Henno raised his weapon – up toward Handon’s center of mass.

  Both of them could practically feel the disbelief of the rest of the team, rapidly washing over them from behind:

  Holy fucking shit. This is NOT happening…

  Handon tightened his grip on his own weapon, but kept it pointed down. There were several reasons he didn’t raise it – foremost of which was he’d never make it. Henno had, like the rest of them, reflexes trained to a glinting edge – mentally able to slow his perception of events to a crawl, and trained to react and dial the violence up in a fraction of a heartbeat.

  When the tension was like a cloud of gasoline vapor between them, ready to ignite at the tiniest spark… they heard an unfamiliar but gruff voice say, “Hey! Knock it the fuck off! Who are you assholes?”

  Handon stole a glance up at the tower and saw that head with the graying crewcut now protruding even more up over the minigun… but even as he looked, a forearm appeared from behind the head… and slowly and silently, like a ghost solidifying into human form, slipped into a noose around the minigunner’s neck… and then the head and forearm both jerked out of view again.

  At this, both Handon and Henno relaxed and lowered their weapons, as a whole new voice – also gruff, but a lot more familiar – spoke out onto the scene. “You kids shouldn’t play so rough. Somebody’s gonna start crying.”

  It was Fick – who was walking right up from around the side of the guard tower, with Reyes, Graybeard, and Noise in tow. Handon de-tensed his posture, tur
ned to face the newcomers, and nodded.

  Seeing three Marines on the ground, Handon raised his eyes up to the tower to wait for the fourth, who was appearing even then. It was Brady, now standing at the railing with the crewcut minigunner – who had just spent an uncomfortable few seconds down on the deck, getting flex-cuffed by a big Marine who also had his legs clenched around his waist. This was after Brady took him down from behind with the economy of a lion taking down a wildebeest.

  As Brady frog-marched his prisoner down the stairs, Handon nodded his thanks. Then he looked back down and locked eyes with Henno… and extended his fist. Henno hesitated one second, looked as if he were battling a smile – then returned the fist-bump. The seemingly mortal conflict between the two of them had started out genuine enough. But then when they both saw Brady climbing up the back side of the tower like a big mean monkey, they’d traded a look of recognition and started hamming it up.

  As a distraction.

  Henno went ahead and bumped fists, but shook his head immediately after.

  Bloody Americans, he thought. Expect to hear electric guitars and Team America theme music every time they do something right…

  Handon couldn’t help smiling, though. He wasn’t sure what the final result was going to be of this episode between him and his most problematical team member. But it felt good in the moment.

  Then again, he knew full well Henno wasn’t going to let positive interactions with Handon get in the way of the mission – any more than negative ones.

  Maybe that was the way it ought to be.

  * * *

  As the two teams re-formed, not relaxing their vigilant posture despite having suppressed one threat, Handon watched Brady prod the prisoner out into the open, and he considered the last few seconds.

  It was the minigunner’s haircut. That was what decided him.

  Not in isolation. But in context, with everything around them. Simply, the man’s haircut matched what they were seeing on the ground. It fit with the tidy order of the base. Handon had seen it before.

  Hell, to an extent, Handon had been that before.

  So he knew that the man who had gotten the drop on them was a soldier, an American one. He could see this verified as the dude hit the ground and walked stiffly forward, chest held out. Middle-aged, of medium height but powerfully built, he was wearing tan Army ACUs with a digital chocolate-chip camo print – and they were pressed and clean, as were his standard-issue desert boots.

  The look on the man’s lined face betrayed intelligence, caginess, pride, and intransigence. He might have gotten captured – but he wasn’t beaten.

  Finally, what was most interesting was the small rank insignia patch Velcro’d to the center of his chest. It showed three chevrons above three rockers – and in the center were two wings flanking a star. It said this man was a Command Sergeant Major – the senior non-commissioned officer for this entire command.

  Handon had a bunch of those patches, or used to. Somewhere.

  “Sergeant Major,” Handon said, nodding. “Why don’t we talk in your office.”

  The man, whose nametape read Zorn, nodded once.

  And he set off without looking back.

  Handon fell in behind him, ahead of the men – and beside Fick. As he glanced over and traded a knowing look with the senior Marine, he idly considered that Fick was really more the Mr. White of this scenario than Mr. Blonde: older, seasoned, professional, and principled – to the point of being willing to die for those principles. But somehow Handon sensed it wasn’t the prospect of Fick’s own death that troubled him. Though the two leaders had never discussed it, they were both battling similar demons.

  But that wasn’t the fight they were in right now.

  And any discussion of their internal conflicts was going to have to wait until the successful completion of their mission.

  Until then, everything else was a sideshow – at best.

  Including this guy, Handon thought. But it was also possible Command Sergeant Major Zorn could prove uniquely valuable to their mission. Handon had been around long enough, and deployed to enough crazy-ass places, to know this: local knowledge was king – and you always listened to the guy on the ground.

  Which is why he’d nearly been willing to fight Henno.

  To keep this man alive.

  * * *

  “How’d you get that scar?” Handon asked.

  CSM Zorn shrugged, and touched two fingers to the jagged raking tissue that went from his right temple, underneath his eyes, almost to the corner of his mouth.

  “One of the crazy-ass fast ones,” he said, his voice deep and slightly raspy. “It leapt in, scratched me, then leapt away before I could put it down.”

  “But you weren’t infected,” Fick said. It was a statement.

  Zorn shrugged again. “Just my lucky day, I guess.”

  Handon took a look around Zorn’s office, which was a very spartan working space, and located in one of the intact buildings about a hundred meters from the guard tower where they’d found him – or, rather, where he’d found them. Like its owner, the office was tidy and squared away.

  “How about taking these off?” Zorn asked. He held up his hands, which were still flex-cuffed in front of him at the wrists.

  Handon hesitated. He could feel the fourth man in the room, Henno, who stood off to the side holding up a wall, radiating disapproval. By rights, it should have been just the two unit commanders in there – Handon and Fick. But Henno had followed them inside and seemed determined to sit in. Handon didn’t feel like risking another confrontation by trying to order him out. Anyway, it wasn’t the end of the world to have another pair of eyes and ears on this.

  Handon looked at the cuffs. “No more muzzle-sweeping my people – not with a minigun, not with anything else. Got it?” Zorn nodded, and Handon drew his Vorax combat knife from its upside-down chest rig, stuck the point between Zorn’s hands, and cut the cuffs with a wrist flick. The knife was past razor-sharp.

  “Okay,” Handon said, leaning back slightly. “Put us in the picture.”

  What he meant was: How did you survive here, all alone?

  But he also meant: Everything. Tell us everything.

  * * *

  Outside, the eight other operators set security, moving off in pairs in each of the four cardinal directions.

  Ali needed to be in overwatch, ideally in the highest spot nearby – which meant that original guard tower they’d passed beneath. Homer started to accompany her – but she shut him down with body language alone, and picked out Predator instead. No matter where these two ended up, they might actually represent the safest spot in Africa, or anywhere. Under Ali’s long gun, you’d never get close to them. And if you did, and found Predator waiting for you, you’d wish you hadn’t.

  Nonetheless, Graybeard and Reyes insisted on going along and dropping them off, before swinging out to their own position.

  As the four commandos walked two by two, Graybeard said in his quiet, husky rasp, “Anyone else think that was a little fucked up back there?”

  “You’re not wrong,” Pred said. Now that the sun was climbing over the building tops, he took out and seated his ballistic Oakley wraps. “That dude could have smoke-checked the whole team. He had the drop on us from an elevated firing position – not to mention a goddamned minigun.”

  Reyes kind of wanted to say that Brady had it under control. But he also knew it could easily have gone another way. Yeah, the guy behind the minigun turned out to be an American soldier. But, especially in the irregular garb the operators wore, they could have been anybody as far as he was concerned. Not least since anyone could scavenge military uniform and gear these days.

  Then again, spec-ops guys had always had this problem. Local garb – keffiyahs, Afghan wool shawls and Pakol hats, thick beards – made them look approachable to the locals, and damn sure made them look cool. But they also made them look like Shi’ite militiamen or Taliban fighters – which was potentially a big
problem every time they came back inside the wire, or through lines manned by regulars.

  It didn’t help when the regulars were lone nutjobs.

  Ali looked back over her shoulder and said, “Another goddamned LaMOE.” She meant Last Man on Earth. CSM Zorn wasn’t the first they’d encountered.

  “Good ole Robert Neville,” Reyes said, using the Marines’ term for it.

  Pred grunted. “He is legend, motherfuckers.”

  Graybeard wasn’t so sure. “He might not be the Last Man on Earth,” he drawled, squinting into the slanting light. “He might just be the last soldier on duty.”

  Pred nodded and grunted again. Maybe he was.

  Ali said, “It would certainly be nice to find one person who survived the ZA on his own – and didn’t go batshit crazy. Nobody’s got any mental stability in this zombie apocalypse.”

  Reyes smiled and said, “You are one genre-savvy chick.”

  She looked back and arched an eyebrow. “What does that mean?”

  “It means if this were a movie or TV show, you’d be the character who knows what kind of movie or show you’re in – and what the conventions are. You’d be the one in the horror movie saying, ‘Guys – whatever you do, don’t split up and go outside the cabin to investigate!’” Reyes nodded, happy with his explanation. “In this case, you know that lone survivors are always nuts. So you’re ready for it.”

  Ali blinked a couple of times in silence.

  “Whatever,” she said.

  They reached the tower and she slung her rifle and climbed smartly up it.

  They Died Running

  Camp Lemonnier - Zorn’s Office

  “For pretty much the first eighteen months, I was locked in the DFAC.” Zorn meant the dining facility, the main mess hall for the base.

  “Had all the entrances barricaded. The walk-in fridges and freezer were slowly filling up with empty food containers – which I’d refilled with my shit. Piss went down the sinks. I stayed there until the food finally ran out.”