ARISEN, Book Fourteen - ENDGAME

by Michael Stephen Fuchs

  Over his own full-auto chattering, Savard could hear Wheeler shouting into his radio beside him, hand to ear – and then he elbowed him and said, “Hey, we’re gonna go help out down on the left.”

  “Roger that,” Savard said, lifting his weapon from the wall.

  “Charlie team on me!” Wheeler shouted.

  By the time they got down the line and linked in with the Royal Marines there, the first shrieking Foxtrots were flying through the air over their heads.

  “Shit,” Savard said. “Watch this.” He set his feet, brought his weapon to his shoulder, elevated his barrel, started tracking a body across the sky – and held his trigger down. Casings and disintegrating links showered the walkway as he tracked and fired more than thirty rounds, pivoting at the waist.

  Much of the shrieking stopped as the flying body came apart in midair, its constituent parts continuing their arcing trajectory back down to earth inside and below.

  “Nice one,” a big strapping Royal Marine NCO said, seeing this anti-zombie-aircraft defense gun in action.

  Savard gave him a smile.

  But he was already tracking the next aerial target.

  * * *

  “Here we go again,” Fick muttered, getting his old bones racing across the yard to where he saw another flailing body come down – but was pleased and relieved to discover it was all in pieces. “Huh,” he said, slowing and relaxing. But then his whole body tensed and he ducked as his guys behind him shouted a panicked warning.

  The next incoming body was still in one piece, plus not destroyed, and was coming down directly on his head – and ducking probably only kept him being knocked out by the thing. He was still knocked down, but luckily the manic thing writhed and scrambled off him – and was instantly engaged by the men in his QRF. As Fick bounced to his feet, he could see it dancing as it got riddled with probably a hundred bullets. It never did catch one in the brainstem, but the barrage was disabling, and it fell down again.

  As Fick stepped over to finish it off, only able to do so because the damned thing could no longer move, he thought about Alpha’s plan to infect Foxtrots by shooting them in the face with MZ- and HRIG-loaded simunitions – which would only work if the manic bastards weren’t destroyed or disabled. They’d have to still be mobile afterward to go around infecting others, and they’d have to be intact to do any zombie-fighting of their own. Maybe Alpha would find a way to make it work.

  But he sure wouldn’t want their job. It was hard enough hitting Foxtrots in the head after taking their bodies apart.

  Anyway, he had his own work to do. “Nice job, men,” he said – a rare compliment. The ones who had gunned down the Foxtrot smiled in response, and slapped each other on the backs and arms. When they finally wound down, Fick said, “Great. I was wondering how long you were going to stand around sucking each other’s dicks.”

  That was the last time they did that.

  Anyway, there were already more spastic bodies incoming. And it was their goddamned responsibility to go around pack-hunting them. They were going to be overwhelmed eventually.

  They just weren’t going to let it be right now.

  * * *

  Wes scanned the front through his NVG binoculars, trying to remain dispassionate as he assessed the situation. But basically, they were screwed, and about to be in big trouble. The dead were back in force, and piling up against the walls with startling suddenness. He racked his brain to try to develop a plan, some new and never before imagined innovation for keeping a million dead out of your walled fortress.

  Absolutely nothing was coming to him.

  But then an innovation came and found them. “Well, I stand corrected,” Wes said, lowering the binos and handing them to his RMP aide-de-camp. “We do have one more armored deus ex machina left.”

  The RMP clearly didn’t know what the hell that meant. But he was too busy ogling the latest remarkable sight out front.

  The tankers were back again.

  Wes wasn’t sure whether they were finally out of main-gun ammo – or else just saw things going to hell at the walls, and had chosen to come back and save the day. Either way, they were definitely still out of MG ammo, and also still couldn’t fire their main guns in that close.

  But they were also riding in giant fuck-off tanks.

  And now they used them to simply drive back and forth across no-man’s land, criss-crossing the whole area between the meat wall and the stone walls, at surprisingly high speed – and crushing the dead into meat pancakes beneath their combined fourteen indestructible metal tracks, each two feet wide. They were crushing heads, torsos, limbs – those of Zulus, runners, Foxtrots, all with equal and perfect nonchalance.

  It was like smashing bugs, a total walkover.

  “Royal Armoured Corps!” the RMP shouted. “Get in!”

  Even Wesley smiled. It was like some eight-year-old boy’s fantasy of a post-Apocalyptic wonderland. What could be more fun than crushing zombies with tanks? Or gratifying? Or safe, for that matter. But it also reminded him of the Battle of the JFK, when it had been only the guns of the Michael Murphy that had thinned the dead coming over the prow enough to keep them from overwhelming the defenders on the flight deck. Now it seemed the tanks were doing the same for the CentCom walls. It was just awesome.

  And then…

  And then the tanks started stopping. And with the firing from the walls ramped down, Wes could also hear their engines sputtering out. They were winding down one at a time, but within a few minutes, the last of them ground to a stop. They had come to rest at seemingly random places out in no-man’s land. And then Captain Windsor popped up in Wesley’s ear.

  “Trojan Six from Alpha One-One. Sorry, that’s it, lads. We did what we could. No more ammo, and no more fuel, so afraid these are war monuments now. Good luck to you all.”

  Wesley could already see the dead moving back in to retake the ground they’d just lost. The area had been swept clear, which was great. But with infinite reinforcements, the dead couldn’t be defeated. Only inconvenienced. And with his expression and his spirits dropping equally quickly, now Wesley remembered what had happened when the guns on the Michael Murphy fell silent.

  The flight deck of the JFK had been overrun.

  And then the RMP elbowed him and pointed, and Wes looked down and to the right – and there was worse news.

  Not all of the tanks had stopped out in no-man’s land.

  * * *

  “Christ, mate, we are so fucking sorry.”

  The tank commander was apologizing even before he had been hauled up over the top of the wall, though he was last out, after the other three men in his crew. By standing on top of the turret they had been able to reach the arms of the Gurkhas hanging off the top of the wall to pull them up.

  Regaining his feet, the commander looked Sun in the eye, after seeing his rank. “Sarn’t Major,” he said, his own chest showing the three stripes of a sergeant. “I was dead sure we had enough fuel to do one more pass to clear the foot of the walls and then get away again. Now there’s no moving the thing. And the dead will be able to climb right up it.”

  They were already having to shout over the firing and moaning, both of which were ramping back up in the wake of the tankers’ final clearing action.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Sun said, shaking the man’s hand. “The important thing is you and your crew are safe.”

  But immediately, perhaps involuntarily, the sergeant turned to look back across the battlefield he’d just escaped, where the dead were flooding back in good and thick – and everyone else in his squadron was still stranded. They were out there because they’d been committed to doing what he had wanted but failed to do: crush as many of the dead as possible before running out of fuel – and ensure that when they did, their tanks weren’t close enough to the walls to become part of the problem.

  “Dry your eyes, princess.”

  This was one of Sun’s smart-ass soldiers, standing nearby, and Sun gave him
a shove in the shoulder to shut him up. But, then again, he knew the Gurkha’s heart was in the right place. And he also knew exactly what he was thinking.

  Because they were all thinking it.

  Sun gave the order to fix bayonets.

  * * *

  In the JOC, Miller sat beside Jones and just stared at the radio, the speaker of which was playing into open air.

  “Go ahead,” Wesley said, presumably from his CP.

  “B Coy RGR are going outside the wire to bring the tanker crews back in. Please give us some covering fire, but we also appreciate it if you take care not to hit us.”

  Brief pause. “You sure that’s a good idea?”

  But before the Gurkha commander could answer, an American voice got on the net. Miller was pretty sure it was one of the USOC men, he thought the one who had originally come into the JOC with the Colonel.

  “Definitely not a good idea, guys. We can’t spare you from the walls, especially in the center. And sorry, but those men stranded out there are already dead.”

  The Gurkha leader didn’t sound defensive when he came back on. He sounded perfectly happy. But he also sounded pretty resolved. “No, they’re not. They’re all still alive. And you are right – we need everyone. Including them. So we’re going.”

  Miller looked at Jones. “Above our pay grade, I think.”

  She nodded, evidently also happy to stay out of it.

  Either way – the Gurkhas were going over the top.

  * * *

  “Hey,” Jameson said, looking over. “Where you going?”

  Charlotte was already on her feet and moving away, but turned back to answer him. “Up,” she said, nodding at the sky. “To support the Gurkhas.”

  “But you said it yourself – you’re out of ammo.”

  “I’ll think of something.”

  Jameson shook his head – she was clearly going to undertake another one of her insane aerial stunts – but he also rose to his feet. He immediately felt himself badly torn in two directions. His first duty was always to his men. But, at this point, Charlotte had saved their asses literally more times than he could remember: the CentCom outbreak, Moscow, the Battle of the Gap, the Gherkin. But the one time he sure as hell couldn’t forget was Dusseldorf – when he had been cut off, abandoned, trapped, besieged, surrounded, and more alone than he’d ever felt in his life… and Charlotte had refused to leave him behind, to die there on his own. She had come back for him.

  And now she was going up in an unarmed and under-fueled helo that was also awaiting maintenance – having already expressed a bad premonition that she was going to find herself fighting down on the ground before this was over.

  And Jameson simply didn’t think he could let her go alone.

  “Croucher,” he said. “You command. I’ll be back.” I hope.

  “Yep, no worries, Major.”

  Charlotte was already running down the muddy dirt ramp off the back of the walls, but Jameson paused for one second to look back upon the Royal Marines of One Troop, all of them fighting gloriously. None of those men had ever let him down either, not once in all these years. He only hoped he’d done as much for them. That he’d done everything he could to keep as many of them alive as possible, to bring them home. Now they were at least back in England – but perhaps only to die there. At least they’d do it together, on home soil.

  It was mostly out of his hands now.

  For the moment, it was in Croucher’s.

  None better, Jameson thought.

  Wondering if this might be the last time he’d see any of them, he turned back around.

  And he ran like hell to catch up with Charlotte.

  * * *

  It wasn’t until Hackworth got within sight of the walls that he turned around to see how many of the Tunnelers had followed him.

  “Up there, I guess.” This was Colley, pointing up the dirt ramp that began at their feet. He was right behind him, of course. But right behind Colley was every other member of the group, everyone still left alive.

  They had all followed him. They had all decided.

  The roar of the guns and the moaning of the dead was terrifyingly close now, and as Hackworth gripped the still totally unfamiliar military rifle in his hands, even he started to second-guess himself. Wondering if he was insane to put himself, never mind the rest of these people, back in such an absurdly dangerous situation – one for which they were totally unsuited and unprepared.

  But he clung desperately to the courage of his convictions.

  He turned again. And he led them up toward the top of the ramp, and the top of the walls.

  But when they were little more than halfway up…

  He realized the situation was even more absurd and dangerous than he had known, or could have guessed. The parapets ahead and stretching to either side were manned by small but serious looking soldiers in British army uniforms, and Hackworth had planned to try to find their officer and ask where his people could best help. Hopefully they’d just be put to work ferrying ammo again.

  But, starting in the center, with the men on either side rushing along to join them while still firing outward, they began climbing up on top of the parapet. And, shouting some kind of joyful yet fearsome war cry…

  They all went over the top.

  When the Tunnelers reached the parapet, it was empty.

  “Right here, I guess,” Colley said with a shrug.

  And he started shooting.

  Mowing the Grass

  CentCom – JOC

  “None of the Gurkha Rifles have NVGs, correct?” The pad of Miller’s index finger floated over a button on the screen.

  “Correct,” Jones said.

  “Okay,” Miller said. “Fuck it.” He pressed the button – which turned on all of the outward-facing prison spotlights on the north walls – the ones that had accidentally come on when the power cycled. And which were intended to flood escaping prisoners in the brightest, harshest light possible.

  “Fuck me,” echoed Jones. She was looking at the video windows on the next station over, which showed the views of the CCTV cameras on those same walls. They didn’t have night-vision capability, so until two seconds ago had mainly showed shifting shadows and tracer rounds sparking off into the undulating darkness.

  Now they showed a stark view of what was out there.

  No-man’s land was already crowded again, with many hundreds of dead pouring into it from the east, the west, and over the meat wall to the north – and also with exactly sixty suicidal Gurkhas racing out into it, after dropping down off the walls onto the tank parked in front, then charging through the falling rain and splashing mud.

  But those hundreds of dead were only the first of hundreds of thousands behind them – stretching to the horizon in three directions. The brutal main-gun pummeling of the tankers had thinned the incoming herd. But it was like thinning an incoming tidal wave with drinking straws. And it wasn’t even so much the numbers – it was that they were all coming straight at them.

  Miller had been right to turn on the lights so the Gurkhas would have a better chance. It couldn’t draw more dead. CentCom was already the center of a world-ending singularity.

  Miller shrugged, sighed, and squeezed Jones’s shoulder. There was something strangely relaxing about when things couldn’t get any worse. Plus now the JOC jockeys could at least watch whatever the hell the crazy-ass Gurkhas thought they were going to do out there. It was unlikely to end well.

  But it was pretty much guaranteed to be a hell of a show.

  * * *

  Sergeant Major Sun was first over the wall, and was pleased to hear the joyous shouting of his men drowned out by the firing from the operators, Marines, and others on the wall in support. They were not only firing every weapon they had, but also launching and chucking grenades – and chucking them well, just ahead of the charging Gurkhas, masterfully placed to help clear out paths to their targets.

  Which Sun could also now see, thanks to the l
ights.

  Those targets were six main battle tanks, stranded out in various points in no-man’s land. And Sun didn’t have to make individual team assignments – there hadn’t been time anyway – as his men self-organized, efficiently dividing into six teams of about ten, and pushing out toward each Challenger, rain streaming down the faces of each of them. Some had farther to go than others, and Sun made sure his section angled for the farthest one – a tank way out on the right flank, and nearly halfway to the meat wall at its right edge.

  It was definitely a smash-mouth fight, but hardly RGR’s first. And there was still just enough clear ground to maneuver, and stay on their feet. Sun made headshot after headshot, pausing to bayonet, shove, or kick away ones who got in too tight. It was definitely too-close-for-comfort contact, but all of them had been vaccinated. Maybe the immunity had even taken effect.

  He sure hoped so.

  He also knew they couldn’t slow down for a second – because as bad as things on the ground were right now, this was as good as they were going to get. It was definitely now or never – and the odds on now weren’t terrific.

  But they had to try.

  Sun dropped out an empty mag, but before he could even get a pouch open, a runner was in his face, then a Foxtrot knocked the runner down from behind and above, and really got in his face – but then that one dropped, too, evidently from someone up on the walls making a truly impressive headshot at range. They were now pretty far over on the right, USOC’s sector, so Sun guessed the operators’ reputation wasn’t unwarranted. He got a new mag in just in time to drop the two runners behind that one, and pushed forward, climbing over a good-sized hillock of mostly crushed bodies, finally seeing the huge tank parked behind it.

  He flipped his fire selector, sprayed and prayed into the area ahead, put his shoulder down and charged.

  He made it.

  In two seconds he was up on the driver’s hatch on the front of the tank, and spinning to cover the other eight men behind him. He was now staring back into the powerful lights facing out on the walls, which also illuminated every fat drop of rain falling from the sky. He reloaded and fired down to either side of his section’s running and gunning column, as they were thronged from both sides by Zulus, charged at by runners, and leapt upon by Foxtrots.