The Humvee stopped at a fenced-in checkpoint that clearly kept civilians from the military base housed within the safe zone. A soldier waved them through layers upon layers of fencing, concrete barriers, fortified buildings, and machine gun nests. A sign that looked like six mountain peaks read U.S. Air Force, Peterson Air Force Base.
They rolled to a stop near a modern building with white sides and dark bluish-gray glass reflecting outward, preventing anyone from seeing in. The building had a cold government look to its architecture made with long lines.
“Here’s your stop, Colonel,” the airman said, sounding a little nervous.
“Thank you, Airman.” Kinnick and Hunter dismounted the vehicle and walked down the white concrete sidewalk leading to the building. Kinnick could sense the master sergeant’s uneasiness next to him even with the swagger in his step, but it was as if he were repelled by the thought of being inside an office building.
“I’m Colonel Kinnick,” he said to two lightly armed, black-beret clad airmen standing outside heavy glass doors. The area was quiet, untouched by the chaos engulfing the nation. The airman on the right whispered in his radio.
“You have clearance to enter, sir.”
The door audibly clicked and the security specialist pushed it open, revealing a large lobby with a shiny polished granite floor. Airmen in Airman Battle Uniforms sat at a large reception desk. Officers swept through the room, holding red folders with papers sticking out of either end.
Weary from his journey, Kinnick took a seat on a long bench on the wall. Hunter let his carbine rest in front of his body and joined him. Not more than a moment after sitting down, his foot began to tap repeatedly. It was the most uneasy Kinnick had seen him since they’d met.
“I fucking hate offices. Just something not right about ’em,” Hunter said.
Kinnick looked around. “Safe and clean. Living men and women. What’s not to like?”
“All of it. The people. The conformity. The life-sucking vibe that goes along with it. Some guys love the smell of fresh carpet and computers, but not this one.”
“Just be thankful we aren’t still stuck in the field. We’ll get a nice break now.”
“I’d take the field any day of the week over this nine-to-five hell.”
An officer walked by, eying Hunter with his carbine.
Hunter leaned forward. “See?” He gestured at the man with an elbow. “Look at them. Did you see the way that guy looked at me? Like he’d never seen a gun before. Fuckin’ Powerpoint Rangers rule this unholy prison.”
Kinnick grinned at the Green Beret. “Just wait until we get inside. They got some nice toys in here. Maybe you’ll learn something.”
Hunter shook his head. “The Chair Force and their gadgets. No offense. At this point, you are basically a grunt by association, and I’m not saying they don’t have their place, but you can’t win a war from the sky. You need boots on the ground if you want a…” He paused thinking for a moment. “Resolution.”
“I suppose we should be thankful they’re still in the fight. I’d rather have them than not.”
They waited five minutes and a short officer with oak leaves on his shoulders and black hair on his head and glasses greeted them. “Good afternoon, sir. You must be Colonel Kinnick. I’m Major Thomas, 10th Special Forces Group, based out of Fort Carson.”
Kinnick stood up. “Major Thomas, good to meet you.” They shook hands.
Hunter piped up behind Kinnick. “Figured you would have bought the farm already?” He stood up behind Kinnick. “And somebody promoted you to major?”
The major narrowed his eyes, focusing past Kinnick. Kinnick thought the major might shove him to the side.
“Holy hell, Master Sergeant Hunter. I thought you got taken out by a goat herder south of Kandahar,” Thomas said, grinning.
The two men shook hands. “Would have rather been taken out by a goat herder than be in your shoes. Look at you with your shiny oak leaves.” Hunter pretended to brush his friend’s shoulder off. “A bit dusty too from sitting inside all day.”
“Promotions are a bit expedited these days,” Thomas said.
Hunter shook his head. “You used to be a hard charger, and now, here you are pushing pencils with the best of the computer junkies.”
“I would go back into the field in a heartbeat,” Thomas said. He addressed Kinnick. “You were in good hands, Colonel, coming in with this alley cat. Tough as nails and mean as a bear with a toothache.”
“Yes, I was. I owe my life to him on more than one occasion.” Hunter had fought like the devil himself against hordes of infected and rogue military units. The rogue units still left a sour taste in Kinnick’s mouth even now. Kinnick had no doubt he would have been killed without him. He would be in a ditch feeding the worms or the infected. It didn’t matter much, because either way, he would have been dead.
Most of Kinnick’s search and rescue squad had perished during the mission. The tomb of Mount Eden’s underground bunker had claimed most. The bunker that had sat about an hour outside of Washington, D.C., and doubled as an emergency evacuation facility for Congress during a disaster had turned into a pit of hell.
“Let me get you inside to NORAD. We’ll get you up to speed on the ongoing operations.”
“Ongoing operations?”
Thomas gave him a questioning look. He blinked in rapid succession behind his glasses. “Yes, sir. We are at war here. Operations are currently underway to take back the United States.”
Kinnick couldn’t hide his look of puzzlement. “Carry on, Major.” We are at war, but I was under the impression there weren’t that many of us left.
Three card-access doors and two ID checks by soldiers and secret service agents and they ended up inside a large operations center.
The wall was covered in giant projection flat-screen televisions. The huge televisions tracked flights. Others displayed jostling cameras of troops on the ground. Another was a map of the United States, displaying green swaths over large parts of the country. The green seemed to pinch the middle inch-by-inch, starting from the coasts.
“You still have ongoing flight missions?” Kinnick asked, looking at the flight radar screen.
“Yes, sir. We are funneling supplies mostly to and from Elmendorf Airfield. It has been largely unaffected by infection. Most of my boys from Fort Carson ended up there. Put some hurt on some bastards and locked that place down.” Faster moving blips on the map caught Kinnick’s eye.
“You’re still flying combat sorties?”
Thomas looked at him, confused. “Why yes, sir. Most of our combat runs are in the Colorado area. I don’t understand. Did someone tell you otherwise?”
Kinnick ground his teeth. “I was at the Pentagon before it fell. We only had local air support. Eventually that stopped. We could have used some help.” He stared at the man for a moment. “Any help.”
Thomas looked down at his feet before he spoke. “I’m sorry, Colonel Kinnick. Those decisions are above my pay grade.”
Kinnick’s mouth twisted. “Whose decision was it?” So many lives lost. So many great minds.
“That came down from the vice president.” He stopped himself. “Well, the President now.”
“The president’s dead?” Kinnick said louder than he wanted. People wearing headsets turned from their computer monitors to stare at him. Hunter whistled a high-pitched note in surprise behind him.
Kinnick gave him a nasty look. “Not helping, Master Sergeant. The president is dead?” he said softer.
“It’s unknown, sir. He went missing during the initial evacuation of Washington, D.C.”
“Are you kidding me?” The bastard’s been missing this whole time.
“No, sir.”
“We had no idea.” Kinnick clenched his jaw. The American public has no idea. Most of the American public has been left for dead. Entire military units have been left for dead, and we don’t even know who the hell is leading us. “Is that bastard vice president her
e?”
“I am,” came a voice from behind him.
STEELE
Northern Michigan
Steele peered out into the night as the waves of the giant lake collided with the shore. Fire gleamed in the dark miles down the cliff.
“You see right there?” Gwen said, pointing out the window. Miniature flames spoiled the encroaching night. Steele crossed his arms over his chest, thinking. This isn’t good.
“What do you think is going on?” Kevin whispered as if the flames miles away could somehow hear him.
“Someone set a fire, and it isn’t the infected,” Steele said. He pulled on a snarl in his beard. People always mean bad things.
“What are we going to do?” Gwen asked on his other side.
“A fire that size in the night. Must be a building.” His eyes couldn’t leave the flame. He was a moth to its blaze. It lured him. It beckoned him. It was dangerous and primal, but he couldn’t pull his eyes away. “We will wait until morning and take a look.”
“We shouldn’t go now?” Gwen asked. Worry plastered her face. He gave her a second glance. Her face was pale like a ghostly shade.
Must be the food poisoning. “No, tomorrow.”
“Why?” she asked.
She will be the death of me. I would have bet on the infected, but the longer I live, the greater her odds.
“Because it’s dangerous and I don’t want to walk into another trap like we did in West Virginia. Even if it means people who need help have to wait.” He reminded himself of his training. It seemed like a past life, as if generations had come and gone and yet he still lived. Make sure the scene is safe before helping others.
Is she disgusted or uncomfortable? He couldn’t tell.
***
The next morning they set out early. Dawn cracked the horizon like an egg sitting sunny-side up. The beach was peppered with the tortured faces of the infected, so Steele opted to lead them along the edge of the coastline cliff. They ran through overgrown leaf-covered yards from lake house to lake house.
Most of the houses were already boarded up for the harsh Michigan winter that lay ahead. Only a few die-hard Michiganders would brave the lake-effect snow the Great Lakes State had to offer. One thing a Michigander always knew was that, no matter what, winter was only a few months away.
Steele’s mother was one of the brave. She never seemed to mind the cold that winter brought, opting for wood fires instead of sunny Florida or dry Arizona. Most of her friends and colleagues were snowbirds, usually retirees that migrated from the northern states to the south in the winter to avoid the harsh weather. Perhaps the isolation of a Michigan winter was worth it now.
Steele left his friends near the side of a brown boxy house. Crouching, he ran to the cliff line. Spying down his optics, he zeroed in on the pack littering the beach. They know we’re here. Something keeps them lingering.
He watched as one tried to climb the hill. After shuffling up four feet, the infected man stumbled, crashing onto his hands and knees. Clawing his way up the sandy cliff, he tumbled backwards, rolling down like a log.
How are we losing?
Sand flew into the air as the infected tumbled, arms flailing. He got up again and repeated the clumsy process.
They will never surrender. They will never give up until we are all dead. How do we continue this fight knowing our enemy will never give up? The only option is for us to never admit defeat. Go toe-to-toe with the bastards. Until we win or we all disappear. Maybe we’re the crazy ones to want to continue on in this world.
He lowered his M4 carbine and gave a quick wave to his comrades with a quick bend of his fingers in their direction. Kevin groaned when he saw all the steps to the bottom of the beach.
“We can’t go along the cliff?” Kevin whispered.
“The beach is clear ahead of them,” he said. He waved down the beach. Most of the infected clustered near the steps they had gone up the night before. “Now, let’s move, soldier.”
“I’m not a soldier,” Kevin retorted.
“You want to read history or make it?” Steele said.
“I prefer a more leisurely pace with fewer steps.”
Steele gave him a grin and gentle shove. They rucked down to the beach in single file.
Reaching the bottom, their feet sank into the loose sand of the pristine beach. Their footprints would be swept away by fresh water in the night. The weight of their packs pushed them deeper into the sand, making each step more difficult than the last, as if each tiny grain of sand wished to slow them down by crumbling and giving way beneath them.
“Wish we would have stayed at the top,” Kevin complained.
Steele ignored him. Within no time, sweat trickled down Steele’s back settling into his military loaned already sweat-stained ACUs.
A plume of smoke rose in the distance, a dissipating black snake in the sky. A smoky stink hung in the air, refusing to fade away. It worried him. He knew it was from the fire they had seen the night before. Not knowing who had set it or why started to pummel his nerves. Burning bodies? He sniffed the air hard. The sickening scent of burnt human flesh was not present. Were they smoking someone out of hiding?
Plowing forward underneath the weight of their packs and the impending dread of what they might find, the small group trekked across the sand. The clouds of billowing black smoke grew larger, warning them to stay away, but they kept moving. Idleness was death. Step-by-step, they marched closer to his mother’s lake house. Each step made his heart hammer faster, and an excited fear rose up inside him.
Miles later, Steele halted them with a tight fist in the air. The smell of burnt timber was thick. The smoke was a visible fog enveloping the surrounding sandy cliff.
A single dead oak tree sat upright in the sand. It had been there as long as Steele could remember. As a kid, he would throw his towel over its low-hanging branches that had been eroded by wind and rain over its decades of life. These low sun bleached-white branches had still been sturdy enough to support the weight of their beach bags and belongings, keeping them from getting sandy in the summer.
This is my beach. That is my old oak. We’re here. He watched the beach, trying to digest the thousands of thoughts shooting through his mind.
“What’s the matter?” Gwen asked. She hadn’t been there enough to know the difference between the miles of beach they had traversed.
“This is my beach,” he said, voice flat. Almost as if he didn’t believe it.
She coughed, covering her mouth from the smoke. “We’re here? I thought we were still a few miles out.”
“So did I.”
A lone moan floated along, gliding to their ears. Steele ignored the unhallowed voice. He was fixated on the bleached tree and the palm-like dune grass that led up his hill. One hundred and twelve wooden steps that he painted summer after summer led up the cliff to his family’s home.
“Up those stairs is my mother’s place.” The deep lonesome moan was echoed by a second and a third.
All of Steele’s party scanned the dunes looking for the culprits. Their carbines were held in the low ready. The undead offered nothing but more death.
“Nothing too drastic. Stay together in a tight group. Don’t let any get behind us,” he said, tasting the smoke in the back of his throat.
A head wobbled near his dead oak tree. That’s my tree. He made for the lakeside steps only to see the bobbing heads of more infected crossing the dunes for him. His hand found the tomahawk on his hip. It screamed for the blood of the dead, electrifying beneath his hand. He let it free and it almost hummed in anticipation.
“Let’s keep it quiet as long as we can,” he said over his shoulder. He crested the top of the dune. The number of dead surprised him. They clustered over the dunes farther down the beach. Must be the fire drawing them in.
Steele cut into the group of infected. He chopped down hard, his tomahawk sticking for a moment before he ripped it free again. He sliced diagonally through the air left and ri
ght, catching another infected in the face. The blade stuck in the creature’s cheekbone, and Steele felt the rotting bone shatter. A hand blurred by Steele’s face as Ahmed jabbed another under the chin, his blade running into its brain. Gwen grunted as she jammed the point of her dagger into an infected rounding the tree. She pushed the body back down. The infected knocked into the tree and collapsed.
“Steele!” Kevin shouted, his voice low. He pointed down the beach. Infected bounded up and over grassy dunes, many more than Steele cared to get up close with.
Steele glanced over at Gwen and then at the others. “Go hot,” he shouted, slipping the tomahawk back into his belt.
Steele moved at the high ready, keeping his carbine pressed to his shoulder, his left hand grasping the fore grip, right hand resting on the pistol grip stock of his M4 carbine. The first infected down the dune crumpled into a pile of gutless meat, its eye disintegrated by his hot 5.56 round. Crack. Crack. His shoulder easily accepted the recoil of the piston-run long gun. His body was built for fighting. Bounding up the dune, he reached its crest with a snarl.
“This is my beach!” he screamed at them. Dead soapy white eyes stared at him, unknowing of anything except death. Fleshless decrepit fingers spread wide for him.
Again and again his carbine barked, followed by the pops of the rest of his group behind him. Still more came over the sandy dunes.
“Forget it. Make for the stairs,” he shouted and they ran. “Move, move, move,” he yelled at them. He pushed them up the steps and they huffed by him. He took the rear. Press. Pause. Press. A moaning infected, its skin hanging from its chewed open jowls fell forward, feet kicking up behind it as it dropped headless to the ground.
Feet clicked off the brown-stained wooden steps as they ran for the top. Steele checked his six a few times making sure they were not followed. His thighs quivered as he churned out step after step. Soon he caught up with the rest, everyone’s bodies exhausted by their heavy packs, dogging it up the steps.
The Rising (The End Time Saga Book 3) Page 5
