The Tide_Dead Ashore

by Anthony J Melchiorri

  Costas’s people looked around at each other, sheathing weapons. Those who could stand did so. The injured leaned against trees or on the shoulders of their comrades. They were soaked in perspiration, their hair matted to their heads and beads of sweat rolling down their faces. Their eyes were bloodshot, and their nails were growing long and jagged at an alarming rate.

  Some of them seemed to have already accepted their death. They stared glumly at their feet or into the middle distance. Others looked at him with eyes narrowed and fists curled. Maybe they were holding back the rage growing in their minds, building like a forest fire, spurred on by the Oni Agent. Maybe they were just determined, still believing they had a chance to live, to find salvation in the hands of some now-mythological medical professional who would rescue them from this death march.

  No one here had been prepared to kill their brother- or sister-in-arms. He had seen expressions like these once before, when Fort Detrick had first fallen. Back before they knew it was the Oni Agent turning their fellow man into monster.

  At least now he knew what their enemy really was. A nanoscopic biological agent.

  “This is hell,” Shepherd said. “I know it. You know it. I’m not going to pretend we’re all going to live in some happily-ever-after wonderland. But we can at least serve a purpose now. We can do something to make sure others don’t have to go through this. That means we cannot make another mistake like that. We cannot let another man die because someone was too selfish to tell us they were losing control.”

  No, we can’t be selfish, Shepherd thought. But maybe I’m asking too much of them.

  Humans were primed to survive. He’d seen it in action. One of his men—intestines actually hanging out of his body—had still fought back. He’d actually killed the attacking Skull, and then he’d turned to Shepherd and asked for help. There hadn’t been anything to do, of course. The man was already as good as dead after the first bite.

  Earlier, he had watched Costas divvy up the Phoenix Compound among his people. The sergeant had chosen who was saved and who was destined for a fate worse than death. Shepherd had not envied him the task.

  That had been several hours ago. Back when there was still a shred of hope that they might find military aid in time to save everyone, including the infected. Shepherd had put off the inevitable until it was too late, and now one of the airmen had turned.

  He couldn’t put it off any longer.

  He willed his voice to remain strong as he looked at each of the men and women, making sure to catch their gaze one by one.

  “The mission comes first.” A Skull shrieked in the distance. Another—this one closer—cried out in response. It would be mere minutes before the monsters descended on them. “Costas? Any luck with that radio?”

  Costas tried the radio again. He searched desperately for anything other than crackling static. He shook his head slowly.

  Shepherd took a deep breath. “If you haven’t been treated by the Phoenix Compound, I need you to step forward right now.”

  A few shuffled forward immediately. Two of them were using thick branches as canes. Another leaned on one of the healthy individuals for support. Almost half the group was suffering from the Oni Agent. It was no use pretending you hadn’t been scratched or bitten, no use hiding now. The symptoms were already too advanced. Not a single one among them was without the telltale crimson-tinted eyes and yellowed, clawlike nails. One man was quivering, his fingers twitching as if he was struggling to hold back from biting his neighbor.

  Shepherd knew what he had to do. That whole speech about putting the mission first...he hadn’t been speaking to these men and women as much as to himself, trying to justify what he was about to do.

  “All of you will get in the cabin now,” Shepherd began. Whispers and mutters rose, but he waved them away. “This is the way it has to be. We’ll leave you with some weapons, but we can’t take you any farther. It’s too much of a risk.”

  “You cannot do this to us! We will die here!” one of the men yelled, his voice thick with his accent.

  “Please,” a woman pleaded, “I am well. I am healthy enough to make it. I promise.” Her eyes, however, glowed red, and her hands, clenched together, were marred by protruding vessels that appeared almost black against her tanned flesh.

  Another man grabbed Shepherd’s lapels. His breath was hot and stank of the rot already churning in his guts. “You cannot leave us to die,” he said in broken English. “This is cruel. It is not right.”

  Shepherd pushed the man off, trying to tamp down the shame. “We have no choice. We have to move.” Then, as if in afterthought, he said, “When we find help, we’ll send a rescue team back.”

  One of the men who had been standing still and quiet until now suddenly looked up. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but no words came out, only a shrill, primal yell as he lunged at Shepherd, fingers outstretched and mouth chomping. Another of the infected struck the man with her rifle. She stood over him, aiming at the man’s chest and pleading with him in Portuguese to stop. When the man slashed at her instead, she fired.

  The woman kicked the dead man over so he was facedown, bleeding into the dirt. “The American is right. We must stay behind. We are a danger now.”

  Another howl drifted through the trees. They would be at this site in minutes.

  The woman inhaled sharply and strode over to Shepherd, her back straight and her head held high. “We are the walking dead. There is no denying our fate.” She translated her words into Portuguese for the others. “But we can still be useful. Bring the monsters to us. We will deal with them while the rest of you escape.”

  The rest of the infected were silent. At last, one stepped forward to stand by the woman. Others followed his lead until all but a couple had joined her. Those last two appeared too sick and too far gone to understand what they were being asked to do.

  “Allow us a small stock of ammunition,” the woman said to Shepherd. “We will kill as many of them as possible.”

  “That, we can certainly provide,” Shepherd said, signaling to the others to give them some. Then he leaned closer toward her. “You are very brave. I will not forget your sacrifice, nor will any of us that live to tell what happened here. What’s your name, ma’am?”

  She hesitated before answering. “Maria,” she said, her voice almost a whisper. “My name is Maria.”

  Another eerie chorus of Skulls’ voices rose. They were close, perhaps just at the edge of the trees.

  “Go,” she said, louder now. “Go!”

  Shepherd signaled the others to move out as Maria commanded her small squad of infected into the cabin. Sergeant Costas saluted her and then turned on his heel, marching quickly to catch up with Shepherd. Soon the cabin disappeared into the mist behind them. A heavy weight settled over Shepherd’s shoulders, more burdensome than his pack full of supplies.

  After twenty minutes of brisk marching, the first pop of gunfire sounded from behind them. The clash of demonic voices and barking rifles lasted for only a few minutes before the forest went still again.

  Shepherd had no illusions as to who had won that battle. Even if the humans had been victorious, the Oni Agent would eventually win. And the Oni Agent would keep on winning until all of humanity was wiped from the face of the planet. Their best hope—perhaps their only hope—was to deliver Matsumoto, the young scientists, and the previous seed samples of the Phoenix Compound to Kinsey.

  You did the right thing, Shepherd told himself. The only thing. Now keep marching, soldier. Double time.

  -30-

  A ghastly wail drifted across the island. The fire still flickered in the distance, consuming the isolation ward. Lauren held the cold steel of the rifle in her hand. It was uncomfortable, awkward. Unfamiliar. She was used to tools that saved people’s lives, not ones that took those lives.

  Peter shifted the handgun back and forth as he crouched beside her. His face was a pale shade of green, as though the mere act of holding the pistol made
him sick. Peter had never been in a battlefield like this.

  Neither have I, Lauren thought. Not really.

  She’d been on the cruise ship in Chesapeake Bay the day Hector had died during an ill-fated rescue attempt. But she hadn’t come face-to-face with Skulls in the wild on her own. She clenched her jaw. Her courage couldn’t fail her now. People’s lives relied on her and Peter making it to the clinic.

  “Huntress, this is Lauren,” she called over a comm link Chao had given her.

  “Chao here. I read you loud and clear.”

  “We were ambushed by a Skull,” Lauren said. “Our driver and escort are both down. We’re on our own.”

  “Oh shit,” Chao said. The comm specialist was never one to lose his cool, and the profanity shocked Lauren. But she could imagine what was going through his mind. Two of the ship’s most important medical assets were on their own in the field and in direct contact with a Skull.

  “Are you okay? Can you get somewhere safe?” Chao asked.

  “We’re hiding outside an abandoned cottage for the moment.” Lauren surveyed the landscape. “The fire hasn’t been put out at Lajes. They still need our help.”

  “This was supposed to be a medical mission,” Chao said. “I’m going to have Frank pick you two up. Be prepared to signal him as soon as you see the chopper.”

  “Copy,” Lauren said. “We’ll watch for Frank.”

  Peter breathed a sigh of relief. “At least we have a ride out of this mess.”

  “We’re still going to help those people.”

  “I know,” Peter said. “But I’d rather have an exit plan.”

  A Skull cried out somewhere in the distance.

  “I can’t believe this is happening,” Lauren said. “One minute it looks like we have it under control, then the next the whole plan has gone to hell.”

  Peter stared at the fire consuming Lajes. “It’s not just the plan that’s gone to hell.”

  “Come on.” Lauren stood and helped Peter to his feet. “Might as well make ourselves at home.”

  She tried the door to the cottage. The handle didn’t budge, but the wooden frame seemed rotten. She threw her shoulder into the door, and it burst inward, spraying chunks of soft wood into the dark interior. She had only a small penlight for patient exams. The weak beam did little to shove aside the darkness.

  She motioned Peter into the house, and he closed the door behind him. He promptly barricaded it with a mildewed sofa.

  “I’m not sure if I like this place any better,” he said, sniffing the air. “Smells like death.”

  The odor of decay and rotting meat hung in the air. “Probably some animal that came in to die,” Lauren offered.

  “You don’t really believe that.”

  Lauren searched the cottage with her penlight. “God, I hope Sean’s okay,” she said as they moved into the kitchen.

  Peter made a noncommittal noise, his arm still shaking as his handgun roved over the room’s table. Four chairs lay strewn about the tiled floor. “Nothing in here.”

  He went to the pantry and flipped open the door. Something burst out, and he jumped backward, firing a shot into the floor.

  “Damn it!” he yelled.

  It was only a rat. The animal scurried away and disappeared into a hole in the baseboard.

  “Careful, Peter,” Lauren said.

  A guttural roar sounded. They both spun on their heels.

  “That wasn’t outside, was it?” Lauren said.

  “No,” Peter said. “No, it wasn’t.”

  She eased out of the kitchen, her feeble light probing the darkness. They prowled toward the hall. There appeared to be just three doors in the short corridor. Bedroom, bathroom, closet, Lauren guessed.

  “Which door?” Peter asked. “Guess right, and get a prize.”

  “Let’s go with door number one.”

  The growling grew louder at the sound of her voice.

  Peter spoke into his comm link. “Frank, are you on your way? Our safe house isn’t so safe.”

  They began backing away from the door. Lauren kept her flashlight trained on it. As soon as that bastard showed itself, she would take it down.

  “At least we know where it is,” she said. “Much better than being ambushed outside.”

  “Sure,” Peter said, sounding uncertain.

  “I’m fixing to have you out of there in a couple minutes, my good doctors,” Frank said in some kind of mock Southern drawl. The man had the oddest sense of humor. “Y’all just hang tight. Ol’ Frank is coming in for the rescue.”

  “Two minutes?” Peter asked. “Better not be any—”

  Something slammed against the front door. Lauren’s heart threatened to jump from her chest, and electric adrenaline careened through her body. The door shook, but the couch held. The window, however, did not.

  Glass shards flew across the room, cutting Lauren and Peter like so many tiny daggers. A man lunged through the window.

  No, not a man. Not anymore. He wore a shredded airman’s uniform, and his flesh was a sickly gray beneath the torn clothes. Ropey muscles bulged, and small bony protuberances budded from his flesh. His nails had already grown into short claws. He came at Peter and Lauren like a whirlwind of rage.

  Lauren tried to swing her rifle to fire on their new enemy. The infected man was quicker. He ducked under the blast and hit Peter hard in the ribs. The air whooshed from Peter’s lungs, and he crashed into the ground with a pained grunt. The pistol flew from his hand.

  Before she could fire again, the bedroom door behind her crashed open. A woman lumbered out. Her hair hung matted and tangled between budding horns. A rope was still dangling from her neck, as if she had tried to end her own life when she realized what was happening to her. But it hadn’t worked.

  Lauren turned the gun on her instead. The first shot caught her arm. She fired again and again as the woman charged. Bullets flew wild. Some lanced through the woman’s flesh. Others plunged into the wall behind her. But nothing seemed to slow the crazed Skull.

  At the last second, Lauren dodged, and the woman went sprawling across the floor. Her body slammed into the other Skull, knocking him off Peter. Blood covered the back of Peter’s head where he’d smacked it against the floor, but he seemed otherwise unharmed. He scooped up his pistol just as the two Skulls recovered.

  Lauren sent a flurry of bullets punching into them. Peter swung the pistol around in time to shoot the one nearest him in the face. The female Skull fell and then began to crawl toward him. Blood wept from her wounds and trickled out of the corners of her mouth. Lauren pulled the trigger of her rifle, but the bolt had locked back.

  Empty.

  Peter was out of bullets too. He cursed and slammed the handle of the pistol into the female Skull’s face. He hammered again and again, until her fingers stopped twitching and her tongue lolled out. He kept going, caving in bone and flesh. Soon all that was left was pulpy mess.

  “Peter,” Lauren said.

  He didn’t respond.

  “Peter!”

  Lauren grabbed his shoulder, and he wheeled around on her. For a moment, she thought he was going to hit her, too. But his eyes cleared, and he dropped the pistol.

  “She’s gone. We’re safe,” Lauren said.

  The low growl of another Skull told her she was wrong. Another had appeared in the open window. It stared at them, its eyes growing wide with hunger, and started to climb inside. Lauren grabbed her rifle, ready to use it as a club, when two more Skulls appeared behind it.

  But then she heard a sound even more glorious than when the lab computer pinged with favorable results from an experiment. The thumping blades of a chopper. The Skulls looked to the commotion, and a blinding white spotlight hit them head on. There was a crackle of gunfire, and all three Skulls fell limp in the window.

  “Looks like y’all are having a party and didn’t invite me,” Frank’s voice boomed over their comm links.

  “Is it clear out there?” Lauren asked, brus
hing flecks of bone and blood off her.

  “Won’t be for long if we stay low like this.”

  Peter hurried to his feet, and they shoved the couch aside. The rush of air pushed down by the blades threatened to blow them backward, but Lauren didn’t mind. She rushed to the chopper with Peter by her side. Johnson and Taggart, two of the Huntress’s engineers, helped them in. Like her, they weren’t trained soldiers. But when their comrades had been in danger, they’d become what they had to.

  Frank waved from the pilot’s seat, his characteristic shit-eating grin plastered across his face. “Next stop, Dante’s Inferno. I hope you brought marshmallows, because things are about to get toasty.”

  -31-

  Dom winced at the sound of blaring alarms.

  “We never catch a break,” Dom muttered. Into his comm link, he said, “Bravo, SITREP.”

  “The bad guys are no longer with us,” Meredith said. “But more may be on the way. Proceed as planned?”

  Dom looked around at the others. They looked determined. He expected nothing less from his Hunters.

  “They might just think a Skull has gone AWOL,” Miguel offered.

  “I sure as shit hope you’re right, bro,” Spencer said. “But I reckon they’re not that dumb.”

  Dom looked up at Jenna. She was perched on the corner of a squat, two-story warehouse. The best part of operating in the port, Dom decided, was the sheer amount of cover and elevation everywhere. It was a covert ops dream. “Got an estimate on numbers?”

  “Thirty, maybe forty men running around. A dozen posted outside the warehouse Andris and Meredith are headed to.” She peered into one of the many skylights on the warehouse roof. “This place is divided up into a bunch of smaller rooms separated by chain link and wooden boards. Hold on a sec.” She paused. “There’s something else...a sterilization chamber like they’ve got a high-tech lab. BSL3 or 4, maybe.”