The Tide_Dead Ashore

by Anthony J Melchiorri

  Maybe at the top of the lighthouse, the signal could travel farther. Someone might pick it up. Even if it wasn’t the military, they might have a chance. A civilian could be out there listening, able to relay to the nearest operational base.

  And maybe Shepherd was being foolish.

  “Please, is anyone there?” Costas pleaded with the radio. “Anyone at all. We are a Portuguese military unit providing escort for Colonel Jack Shepherd. We have highly vital intel that must be passed along to General Kinsey.”

  Static. Then, “...Aberdeen...”

  Shepherd’s heart leapt. Could it be?

  The Goliath reared its head above the trees for a moment and let out a roar. A smaller Skull was clutched within its claws, squawking and flailing its limbs. The Goliath tossed it like a javelin. The beast fell far short of the lighthouse and broke against the trees at the edge of the forest.

  With a grunt, the Goliath continued its brute-force push through the forest.

  Costas repeated their hail, adjusting the antenna. Suddenly, a voice rang out as clearly as if the radio operator had been standing right beside them.

  “Unidentified Portuguese military unit, this is Aberdeen Proving Ground. We received your request for aid. Please advise on your location.”

  Shepherd grinned. Aberdeen Proving Ground was the home of military innovation and development. And if he recalled correctly, there was a small airport right next to the base.

  He scooped the radio from Costas. “Colonel Shepherd here, former acting commander of Fort Detrick’s army garrison. We’re at a lighthouse overlooking...well, we’re not quite sure where, exactly. We survived a plane crash. I can see water, presumably the Chesapeake, to our west, forest to our east. Town is northwest. The lighthouse is maybe forty feet tall, white blocks.”

  The Goliath roared, and another Skull came flying toward the lighthouse. It landed at the foot of the tower, splitting open like a rotten fruit.

  Shit, that was close.

  “Roger,” the comm specialist said. “We have your location. Aid is en route.”

  “Shepherd!” Navid yelled. The young scientist tackled him, and he dropped the radio. A screaming Skull smashed into the platform where he had been half a second before. It exploded through the glass housing surrounding the lighthouse’s lamp. Shards sprayed the soldiers, tearing into fatigues and flesh. The Skull flailed, limbs broken and neck crooked.

  Navid fired the pistol Shepherd had given him. His shots were poorly aimed, but he was close enough that most of them counted. The Skull went still as the slide on Navid’s pistol locked back.

  “You okay?” Navid asked, turning to Shepherd.

  Shepherd remembered Dom’s story about how they’d rescued this sniveling young graduate student, a wreck of a young man. Shepherd wouldn’t have believed he was the same person. Navid offered him an outstretched hand, and Shepherd took it.

  As he picked himself up and brushed off shards of glass from his clothes, he saw that the radio was now little more than shattered plastic and broken electronics. The Goliath picked up another Skull and sent it careening like a skeletal missile toward the lighthouse.

  Shepherd prayed help was coming soon, that Aberdeen wasn’t too far away. He handed another magazine to Navid. The scientist fumbled with it before Shepherd showed him how to load the weapon.

  “Try not to use the whole clip next time,” Shepherd said gruffly. “And...thanks.”

  “No problem,” Navid said, steely eyed. The young man, more at home with a pipette than a pistol, marched to the edge of the platform and brought down another Skull trying to scale the lighthouse.

  -37-

  Andris strode out of the warehouse. The cool breeze from the bay tugged at the fresh bandages along his cheek. His ribs still ached, and pain coursed up and down his right leg from his ankle to his knee. Every time he tried to run, his joints felt as if they would give out.

  He pushed through the agony. His new brothers in war gave him no reason to pity himself for his own injuries. The Hybrids had been starved and experimented upon by the FGL. Their faces were twisted in permanent grimaces, and their joints clicked with each move they made. The only ones that looked at peace were those that had died in battle beside the Hunters, their minds freed from the constant misery and pain of their bodies.

  During the fight, one of the Hybrids had confessed to Andris that he wanted to die—but not before he killed as many of Spitkovsky’s goons as possible.

  That Hybrid now stood beside him, one of the unlucky few that had survived the fight. He had introduced himself as Petty Officer Brendon O’Neil. Andris tried to imagine what the man had once looked like, behind the overgrown bones and disfiguration wrought by the Oni Agent experimentation.

  “Did you come to rescue us?” O’Neil asked. “You’re a little late.”

  Andris remembered what it had been like to be abandoned himself, left to die in a Syrian mine by the French Foreign Legion when a covert operation went bad. They had assumed he was dead. But that hadn’t made waking up alone, bleeding out, any better. Kinsey had seemed convinced that none of the Americans were still alive. But maybe, if he had tried harder to find the SEALs he’d sent here, O’Neil and his men might have been spared the horrors of the FGL labs.

  “Yes,” Andris said, marshaling his anger at Kinsey. “We were sent to save you and finish the mission.”

  “Should’ve saved your own asses instead,” O’Neil said. “We might as well be dead.”

  “But we are all here now,” Andris said. “And we have a common goal, yes? Now we must stop those freighters.”

  “Did you have a plan?” O’Neil asked.

  “Explosives,” Andris said. “I rigged them up to take out the propellers.”

  “I see,” O’Neil said. He studied their ragtag band of Hybrid and human forces. “It would be suicide for you to try planting something on those ships now. The bastards have forces all over the port aimed our direction.”

  “We could swim for it,” Spencer said.

  “That’s a long way to swim,” Jenna said.

  “And if we were spotted...well, you know how the old saying about fish and barrels goes,” Glenn said.

  “Either we kill every last one of the bastards in our way,” Miguel said, “or else somehow convince them all to leave the docks.”

  O’Neil’s lips cracked into what Andris thought might be a wicked grin. “You know why they did this to us, right?” He placed a hand on his chest.

  “Super soldiers,” Andris said.

  “More than that,” O’Neil said.

  “The Titans,” Meredith answered. She turned to O’Neil. “Do you have the same abilities the, uh, more advanced Hybrids have?”

  “You mean the actual Russian Hybrids? The ones with the final Hybrid concoction?”

  Meredith nodded.

  “The batch they tried on us”—he waved a hand to indicate the SEALs and Moroccans around them—“it was the beta test before the final version.” His eyes narrowed. “So to answer the question I know you want to ask: yes, we have some influence over Skulls.”

  “How?” Andris asked. “How is any of this possible?”

  “Pheromones, I think,” O’Neil said. He tapped his skull. Horns protruded beneath the ragged remnants of his hair. “They implanted some shit in our brain. If we think the right thoughts, it does something. I can practically smell it. I’m no scientist, so I can’t explain it better than that, but we can make angry Skulls...less angry. We can get them to follow us or rile them up. You know how the Skulls tend to swarm?”

  Meredith and Andris nodded. Yes, they were well aware of that.

  “I don’t think it’s just them being attracted to sound and prey. Their energy feeds off each other. Like a crowd at a football game. Get one guy hyped up, and the people around him can’t help but cheer.”

  Andris’s stomach lurched. Now it made sense, what he had heard on the radio. How Spitkovsky’s people claimed to be talking to the Skulls. The H
ybrids did have some ability to influence the Skulls, just like the Titans.

  “Best way to win a battle like this is split up the defensive forces on multiple fronts. Let’s see if we can call some Skull reinforcements.”

  “Before you do,” Andris said, “We need to know more. How well can you control them?”

  “Not well enough,” O’Neil admitted. “The goal wouldn’t be to let all the Skulls loose in here. Just get them outside the gates. Enough to scare the Russians so they spread their forces thin. Then we can skim the defenses around the ships, and you can plant your bombs. How’s that sound?”

  Meredith looked at Andris for a moment. He could tell what she was thinking: You got a better idea?

  He didn’t.

  Miguel answered before either of them could. “Sounds insanely risky and, well, insanely insane, bro. I like it.” He moved to clap O’Neil on the back then appeared to think better of it. Too many spines and spikes, evidently.

  O’Neil looked to Meredith and Andris for approval. More enemy troops were moving their way. A few were already taking potshots at the warehouse. Soon enough, they would be surrounded again. Trapped. They didn’t have numbers on their side, and now the FGL knew what they were up against. Andris feared that it would be slaughter, and he knew which side would be lying dead and bleeding in the warehouse this time.

  “I do not think we have another choice,” Andris said.

  Meredith nodded. “Do it. We have to.”

  “Good.” O’Neil strutted forward and split the Hybrids into four groups. He sent three to various points along the walls and gates of the facility with orders to attract as many Skulls as possible. As they departed, O’Neil remained behind with the fourth group. “Once things start to go mad, we’ll escort you to the ships.”

  The Hybrids bristled with the weapons they’d picked up from the dead in the warehouse, but Andris hardly thought it was necessary. The experiments had turned their entire bodies into weapons. He shuddered at the thought.

  “Now we wait?” Andris asked.

  “Now we wait,” O’Neil said.

  “How will we know when they start calling the Skulls?” Jenna asked.

  “I can feel it,” O’Neil said. “That pheromone, chemical bullshit...whatever it is. I could feel it each time the Skulls were going crazy outside the base, even when we were stuck in our prison cells. They’re always inside my head, you know?”

  The Hunters stared at him, expressions of horror on their faces.

  “That’s messed up,” Spencer said.

  “I’m so sorry,” Jenna breathed.

  O’Neil shrugged his bone-plated shoulders. “What’s done is done. All that’s left is revenge.”

  Andris could understand that feeling. He propped up his MK11 and sighted up the nearest enemy target. Exhaling, he rocked the trigger back. The soldier’s face disappeared in a scarlet firework, and his body collapsed behind a crate. Another two soldiers went down. The rest of the soldiers seemed to be waiting for something, lining up just outside Andris’s range.

  O’Neil stiffened. His eyes searched the sky, and his nostrils flared.

  “Is it starting?” Andris asked.

  “No, it’s not that...”

  Andris surveyed the enemy soldiers once more. All human. They seemed to be looking at something beyond the Hunters. A pit formed in Andris’s stomach. The hairs on the back of his neck stood, and he swiveled, pointing his rifle skyward, toward the roof of the warehouse. Dark shapes were silhouetted against the purple sky, like gargoyles come to life.

  “More Hybrids.” O’Neil tensed. “And these ones aren’t ours.”

  ***

  A cold wind whipped Kara’s hair about her face as she stood on the deck of the Huntress.

  “Are you ready for this?” Lauren asked her.

  “Of course.”

  “You don’t have to if—”

  “I can handle it,” Kara said.

  “Good,” Lauren said. “Red tags need priority attention. Yellow is moderate. Green will probably live. You see any red tags we missed, let me know.”

  “Got it,” Kara said. The blue nitrile gloves clung tightly to her sweaty palms. “Black means they’re probably going to die, right?”

  Lauren nodded. “You probably won’t be seeing any black tags, though.”

  “Oh,” Kara said. At first, she thought that meant Lauren didn’t expect anyone’s injuries to be that bad. That maybe the disaster at Lajes was overblown and most everyone would be fine. A moment later, it broke over her like a sudden rainstorm. Frank wasn’t going to waste space on his chopper for someone who was already doomed.

  A shiver crept down her spine.

  Those people would be left behind for any Skulls that hadn’t yet been killed. Her knees almost buckled as she thought of the moans of the dying. How desperate they must be, lying alone on the asphalt or in the grass, only to have their calls for help be answered by a Skull.

  “You sure you’re going to be okay?” Lauren asked.

  Kara looked around at the engineers and other crew members assembled. It was a ragtag bunch recruited from every part of the ship. These people normally never saw action until it came to them. If her father—their captain—were here, he would not back down. “Yeah, I’ll be okay.”

  The thrum of the helicopter blades grew louder. Green and red lights blinked on the bird. Kara braced herself against the rotor wash, shielding her eyes with her hands. The chopper came down hard, and the doors were flung open immediately.

  Crew members rushed forward and formed a receiving line for patients. Those that could get off the chopper on their own did so first; many of them had green bands around their arms. They turned to help the others with red and yellow bands, unloading bodies into awaiting stretchers. Kara moved in to help a Portuguese female airman lift one of her injured compatriots. They loaded the man onto a stretcher. His left leg was shredded below his kneecap. Fragments of bone glistened in wet muscle exposed to the night air. A red band was tied to his arm, and a tourniquet was cinched above the pulpy mess that had been his leg.

  Fingers of nausea tightened around Kara’s stomach, but she gulped it down. She had told Lauren she was okay; now she needed to prove it.

  “This way!” Kara said, picking up her half of the stretcher. She led the airman into the med bay, and as gently as they could, they transferred the man onto one of the empty beds. His eyes were tightly closed, and a soft groan escaped his lips.

  “I’ve got it from here.” Peter mopped his brow with a forearm, clearing the sweat from his eyes. Divya and Sean were gone. It was just Peter and Lauren manning the bay, along with whatever medical personnel they rescued from Lajes. Judging by how quickly the fire had enveloped the isolation ward, Kara wondered just how small that number would be.

  She rushed back up the ladders, dodging the stream of patients and helpers headed into the med bay. Flashes of red caught her eye as she jogged past. There were more red bands than she had expected. So many people needed immediate attention. There was no way Lauren and Peter could save them in time. No way. They might as well have black bands.

  God, Kara thought. This is madness.

  By the time she made her way back up to the deck, the chopper had already left for another load. She prepared the next set of stretchers and replenished the stock of bandages and tourniquets. A few crew members lingered deckside with her. One of the men was vomiting over the gunwale. Kara sympathized. Her stomach still churned. She tried to stand straighter, ignoring her frayed nerves and the dark thoughts flooding through her head. A dull thrumming indicated Frank was headed back.

  Once again, the chopper came down, and the doors burst open. Another batch of patients was rolled out. This time, Kara noticed a few people wearing white bands with red crosses around their arms. These were nurses and paramedics from the base. A cool wave of temporary relief washed through her. At least they had more help now.

  The relief was short lived. The Huntress’s crew members r
ushed forth to help the patients off, and Kara surged forward with them. Once again, she helped load a man on a stretcher. She tried to ignore the horrific gashes across his abdomen. Her job was not to stare at his injuries. She needed to get him on the stretcher as quickly as possible. The red band tied on his arm was splattered with the darker hue of blood.

  “Kara,” the man croaked. Her eyes flicked to his face in surprise. Beneath the mess of lacerations, she recognized his emerald-green eyes. And even though most of it was matted with blood, a few tufts of carroty orange hair framed his mutilated face.

  “Sean?” she called. “Sean!”

  She helped one of the newly arrived nurses carry him down the ladders to the med bay.

  “I found it,” Sean mumbled. “I found it. Tell Lauren.” He clutched something in his hand. It was a small notebook, torn and covered in blood. “I found it...”

  His eyes closed, and his fingers loosened, the notebook falling from his grasp.

  -38-

  Dom ducked, sliding to a stop as bullets peppered the walls around him and Reynolds. Two guards had burst out of one of the rooms near the facility’s entrance. They appeared to have been more surprised than anything. Their shots showed it, wild and erratic.

  With steadier aim, Dom plugged the first guard twice in the chest and once in the head for good measure. The man fell back into the room he’d come from, and his submachine gun clattered to the floor next to him. The second guard disappeared under a fusillade of bullets from Reynolds.

  “Looks like all my work out there was for nothing,” Reynolds said. All semblance of a stealthy entrance into the communications room had been shattered. “It was fun while it lasted.”

  Voices boomed from inside. The room was filled with radios and computers. Guards overturned tables to act as makeshift barricades. It wouldn’t do any good. Especially not with the armor-piercing rounds loaded in Dom’s SCAR-H. But all the same, the entryway was a deadly chokepoint for Reynolds and Dom.

  “How good of a shot are you?” Reynolds asked, his chest heaving. He seemed to be having trouble recovering his breath.