Her walls crumbled and she stepped into my arms. I held her tight, the lump of her stomach pressing into me, her tears wet upon my chest. Something gripped my leg, and when I looked down, my son was looking back at me. One of his hands gripped his mother’s leg, the other mine. I smiled at him and he smiled back. After a few more seconds, I pulled away.
“I have to go now. We can talk about this when I get back.”
I knelt and hugged my boy. He kissed my cheek and looked at me with his somber little gaze.
“I think you’re very brave, Dada.”
My throat tightened, and it was a few seconds before I could speak. “Thanks. I love you, son.”
“I love you too.”
“Take care of your mother until I get back, you hear?”
He nodded. His expression was serious, the bright eyes devoid of any trace of irony. “I will. I promise.”
I kissed him again, gave Allison one last hug, and left.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Eric,
BSC Headquarters
“So what’s the plan?”
Gabe opened the door to his office and stepped inside. I walked with him to a pair of sliding doors behind his desk and watched him remove a key from around his neck.
“Ground teams are already en route,” Gabe said. “We’ve got two Blackhawks spinning up outside. I want Great Hawk in one of them and you with me in the other. We’ll be command and control until the Army can get on site.”
He unlocked the doors and slid them apart, revealing a black wire cage housing an arsenal of weapons, ammunition, loaded magazines, and body armor. The cage’s lock had a combination dial on it, which Gabe began spinning left and right. If it had been me, I would have needed the combination written down somewhere. But with Gabe’s eidetic memory, he could not have forgotten the sequence if he had wanted to.
“How many men are you sending?” I asked.
“We’re going in company strength. About two hundred shooters with another fifty in reserve.”
The cage door clicked and opened. Gabe swung the doors aside and removed two sets of body armor and tactical vests. He handed me one set and then began removing weapons and magazines from the racks and shelves. I took off my shoulder harness and began adjusting the straps on the armor. It was heavy, the soft parts rated for most pistol rounds, and the plates in the front and back capable of stopping more powerful rifle cartridges.
“Do the police have the area contained?”
“For now, they do.”
Gabe finished strapping down his armor and picked up his tactical vest. As was his habit, he had pre-adjusted it to fit over his armor. The mag carriers and pouches were packed with the things he needed for a sustained assault. Once his radio was on and his earpiece was in place, he started helping me gear up. It took just over a minute to fit the vest, load the mag carriers and pouches, do a radio check, and transfer my pistol and spare magazines to a drop holster. That done, we both began donning Army issue bite-proof armor. It was made of heavy leather with thin metal plates riveted in critical areas. The armor covered our hands, forearms, and lower legs—the places on the body where the infected were most likely to attack. Last was a Kevlar helmet with a clear polycarbonate face shield.
Gabe removed two sniper carbines and handed me one of them. They were both chambered in 5.56 NATO, complete with free-floated barrels, variable-power optics, match grade triggers, and adjustable stocks.
“What kind of ammo are we running?” I asked.
“Sixty-two grain bonded soft points from that new factory in Illinois. Hand loaded them myself.”
“How accurate are we talking?”
“Sub-MOA at a hundred yards. Took the barrels from a couple of Wilson Combats I found out near Aspen.”
“Good enough for me.”
Before we left, Gabe grabbed his Desert Tech SRS sniper rifle. I had always been impressed with the weapon, and more than a little jealous because I did not own one. It was shorter than a standard sniper rifle because of its bullpup design, meaning the bolt and magazine were located behind the trigger group rather than in front. This allowed for a much shorter overall length than if the bolt and magazine were mounted forward of the trigger, as was the standard with most rifles. Even better, the rifle was modular, allowing it to fire several different calibers depending on the configuration. In times past, Gabe had set it up for the incredibly powerful .338 Lapua Magnum. But, with .338 ammo now all but impossible to find, he had reconfigured the weapon for the much more common .308 Winchester.
Gabe slung his carbine across his back, hefted his sniper rifle and a small box of loaded magazines, and turned to look at me.
“You ready?”
I inserted a magazine in my rifle, pulled back on the charging handle, and released it. Safety on. Checked the pistol. Mag inserted, round in the chamber. Holstered it. Back to the rifle. Optic set to four-power. Tugged on the sling connections.
Everything looked good.
“Yep. Let’s go.”
*****
On the way to the helipad, Gabe sent word for Great Hawk and the others to meet us there. They were suited up, armed, and waiting when we arrived. A pair of Blackhawks were finishing their pre-flight routines and spinning up as we walked across the tarmac. I found myself marveling, not for the first time, at the staggering amount of capital BSC must have had in its coffers to afford the massively expensive birds. The price of obtaining fuel, lubricants, and parts for routine maintenance, on a per annum basis, was equal to the cost of providing food, housing, and around-the-clock security to forty families for an entire year.
“Hawk, I want you and Cole in Eagle Two,” Gabe said, pointing at a Blackhawk with the numbers 02 in white stencil aft of the sliding door. “You’ll be with Boone and Rossi, two of my best guys. Thompson, Holland, you’ll be in Eagle One with me and Eric. Questions?”
There were none.
“Let’s move.”
I followed Gabe to the Blackhawk labeled 01 and climbed in. Thompson leapt nimbly inside behind me. Holland had a little more difficulty due to his shorter height and the weight of his gear, but he made no complaint and took position on the port side door where an M-134 minigun was mounted to the deck.
While he put on his harness and strapped in, I unslung my sniper carbine and took position on the starboard side. A square opening in the side of the helicopter gave me a limited but serviceable view of the surrounding area. Gabe motioned for everyone to put on headsets and moved to the port side where he could see out the open door. Thompson took a seat directly opposite me.
I listened through the headset as Gabe conferred with the pilots and did a radio check with both helicopter crews. When it was my turn, I clicked the button and said, “All stations, Lima Charlie.”
The roar of the engines and blades grew steadily louder. I felt a sinking pressure in my stomach as the chopper left the ground with surprising speed and turned northward.
“What’s our ETA?” Gabe asked the pilot.
“On station in three mikes.”
“All stations, do a final weapons check,” Gabe said. “Holland, you’re on the minigun. Hawk, stay on comms and be ready to take over mission lead.”
I looked at him. The only reason the Hawk would take over was if our helicopter went down. Not a pleasant thought.
“Rossi, you’re backup. Boone, I want you on overwatch.”
A heavy drawl came through the earpiece that I could not quite place. Not southern, but definitely not northern. Western maybe?
“Will do, boss.”
“Alright, gentlemen, you all know what to do. Keep the channel clear unless it’s important. Mission lead out.”
The short ride to the Refugee District was quiet save for the drone of engines and whirl of rotor blades overhead. We were headed due north, which prevented me from seeing the area we were headed into. I checked my rifle twice more and wished I could fire a test shot. The weapon was not mine and therefore unfamiliar. But I had
faith in Gabe. If he said it was good to go, then it was good to go.
“On station in thirty,” the pilot said over the radio.
“Copy. Take us lower and head west, then circle the perimeter to the north.”
“Roger that.”
“Riordan, get your scope up and tell us what you see.”
“Wait one.”
I slung the rifle across my shoulders, dialed up the magnification on my scope, and aimed the carbine out the starboard side porthole. The helicopter banked left, dropped altitude, and then leveled off.
“What do you see, Eric?” Gabe said.
I moved the scope in a grid pattern over the hellscape beneath me. I saw fire, and black smoke, and people running in blind panic. Muzzle flashes lit up the haze in every direction. To the east, a wall of black uniforms in armored vehicles were pressing into the heaving mass of fear-crazed mobs, their progress painfully slow. Terrified people tried to climb onto the vehicles and force open the doors. Loudspeakers told them to clear the way, but they didn’t listen. Tear gas canisters began launching into the crowd followed by a barrage of rubber bullets. The people closest to the vehicles tried to flee but were stymied by huge throngs piling in behind them. The mass of humanity shifted and swayed like water in a sloshing bucket.
I relayed all this to Gabe. He cursed, switched channels, and began speaking rapidly. A few seconds later the armored vehicles backed off and began heading south where the crowds were thinner.
“Eric, look north. Tell me if you see any infected. Roark, take us lower.”
“Roger,” the pilot replied.
The helicopter dipped lower until we were maybe a hundred feet above the rooftops. I looked where Gabe had indicated and focused on an area where I could see gray bodies moving among the chaos.
As I took in the bloody scene, I was first gripped by confusion, my mind stubbornly refusing to acknowledge the reality of what I was seeing. It occurred to me, in that moment, it must have felt the same for the first responders who died early in the Outbreak, their eyes telling them one thing, their battered psyches refusing to accept it. But after a few seconds, the gut reaction of denial gave way to cold logic and the undeniable evidence of my own eyes.
“What do you got?” Gabe asked impatiently.
“I’m…I’m not sure.”
“Just tell me what you see.”
“We got infected down there.”
“No shit. How many?”
“I’m not sure. A lot. But there’s something wrong with them.”
“Something wrong with them? They’re fucking infected.”
I shook my head. “I know, but they’re…different.”
“Different how?”
“Come look.”
Gabe’s impatience faded, his expression shifting to concern. We had known each other a long time, and he knew it took a lot to rattle me. But rattled I was, and I could only assume it was plain to see. Gabe took the rifle, slid into the spot I had vacated, and peered out the window. I watched him as he did so, and although I could not hear what he whispered under his breath, my lip reading was good enough to figure it out.
Mother of God.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Eric,
Airspace Above the Refugee District
“Clear the channel,” Gabe barked. The chatter on the radio died immediately. He moved back to the bench and I resumed my spot beside the porthole.
“All stations, this is Mission Lead. Acknowledge.”
They did. I put the scope back out the window and listened as well.
“Listen very carefully. We are dealing with a new strain of infected. I say again, we are dealing with a new strain of infected. Acknowledge.”
The acknowledgements came in slower this time, the voices hesitant. And worried.
“These things are stronger and faster than other ghouls,” Gabe went on. “They look like Grays, only much fucking bigger. They’re strong enough to tear off limbs and fast enough to run at a jogging pace. They can also jump about ten to fifteen feet. Acknowledge and repeat back.”
This one took a couple of minutes. The squad leaders of the cavalry units backed off to a part of the Refugee District where the crowds had vacated. I could tell by the tremulous voices I heard that the news was having a hard time sinking in.
“We need to change tactics,” Gabe went on. “Do not engage these things on foot. Repeat, do not engage on foot. They’re too fast and too strong. They’ll tear you apart. Stay in your vehicles and use your heavy weapons to put them down. Squad leaders, break up your units and fight in pairs. Do not make a run at these things unless you have a clear path of escape. Use hit and run tactics. Best bet is to shoot for the legs and disable them. If you can hit them with grenades, do it. Just make sure there are no civilians in the kill zone. And for Christ’s sake, no friendly fire. Once these things are all down, we can go back and finish them off later. Acknowledge.”
The responder at the first station took a while to get it right, but Gabe pressed him until he seemed to grasp what was expected of him. The rest of the Blackthorns evidently learned from their comrade’s mistakes and responded correctly on the first try.
Just as they were finishing, Great Hawk broke in on the radio. “All stations, Eagle Two. The Army has arrived with reinforcements. Mission Lead, how copy?”
“Lima Charlie, Eagle Two. Take over command and control. Have Rossi get on the horn with Colonel Bryant and coordinate our response.”
A pause. “Who is Colonel Bryant?”
“He’s the guy the Army pays to handle shit like this. We’ve worked together before. Rossi will know what to do.”
“Roger that. What is our plan of attack?”
“We’ll start funneling civilians out the east gate. Have the police and the Army set up a secondary perimeter. They can catch any stray ghouls that get out. Captain Starnes, take three Humvees and proceed to the east gate. Maintain standoff and put down any of these new big Grays that try to get out. We cannot let them escape the perimeter. Repeat, do not let them out of the perimeter. Stop them at any cost. Whatever happens, I’ll take the heat. Do you copy?”
“Copy, Mission Lead. Sir, how will I know which ghouls are the new ones?”
“Trust me, Captain. You’ll know.”
Gabe paused a moment, gathering his thoughts. Then he said, “Guys, I’m not going to lie to you. This is worse than anything I’ve ever seen. Keep your wits about you and do what you have to do. Mission Lead out.”
The big man leaned forward and touched the pilot’s shoulder. “Roark, pick a target and bring us in on an attack vector. Holland, spin up that gun and prepare to engage. Riordan, look sharp.”
I looked at him and pointed at my carbine. “You think this will work on those things?”
“One way to find out.” Gabe keyed his radio. “Roark, take us in. Eagle two, maintain altitude and figure out how many of these things we’re dealing with.”
“Roger that,” Great Hawk said.
“Thompson, Riordan, strap in. Unauthorized high-dives are frowned upon in this establishment.”
The two of us gave thumbs up and complied. The helicopter dipped about fifty feet lower and began making a slow pass near the central avenue that bisected the eastern and western halves of the Refugee District. In times past, this area had been something of a town square. The central avenue was broad and flat and connected with every other street in the grid-like district. There were market stalls, restaurants, taverns, liveries, stores, and everything else one would find in a small town. Except now the stalls were knocked over and strewn across the road and everything seemed to be on fire. People ran in all directions, no one seeming to know which way to turn. I saw a small child standing in the central square clutching himself, cheeks covered in tears and soot, his face a mask of naked, screaming terror.
Lock it down. Focus.
I had both eyes open, one on the scope, and the other taking in the wider tactical picture. The trick was to shift focu
s from one eye to the other. The skill had taken a lot of practice to master, and it was good that I had, because if my left eye had been closed, I would never have noticed the biggest damn ghoul I had ever seen emerge around a building and make a beeline for the kid in the square.
The breath I had just taken came out slowly. My left eye closed and I tracked the ghoul’s movement. It was faster than any ghoul I had ever seen, but still not fast as a human at a full run. Its gait pattern was different as well. Ghouls tend to sway when they walk, their stride erratic and off balance. This creature, however, was neither unbalanced nor uncoordinated. Sluggish, maybe, but its head stayed in a mostly straight line and it did not exhibit the drunken stagger I had grown used to seeing. On the one hand, I saw this as good. A steady target is easier to hit. On the other, the monster’s increased speed meant the kid in the square had only a few seconds before a crouching, slathering nightmare tore him apart.
The Gray’s head was low. It walked half-bent in a predatory crouch, arms held out wide, fingers curled into claws. I watched its mouth open and had a clear view of rows—fucking rows—of long, sharp teeth. Both the upper and lower jaw were elongated, the muscles at the hinges rounded and bulging. In fact, ‘round and bulging’ was a good descriptor for all the thing’s musculature.
There was a part of me that wanted to keep watching the ghoul, to evaluate and analyze, look for weaknesses. But a far larger part of me was screaming to just hurry up and kill the fucking thing.
I let out a breath, estimated the range, put the reticle slightly forward of its head to compensate for the movement of the chopper, and squeezed the trigger. The rifle bucked, and an instant later, the ghoul’s head snapped to the side. The creature collapsed immediately, sliding to a halt on the concrete. The kid heard the shot and looked behind him, saw the ghoul, and took off running. I relaxed slightly and watched to make sure the creature was down for good.
Surviving The Dead | Book 9 | War Without End Page 12
