by Adam Baker
The radio operator sat at his console and scanned wavebands. Trenchman stood at his shoulder.
‘Liberty Bell, do you copy over? MT66, we are listening on SAR two-four-one, please activate your transponders.’
Nothing but static.
‘Sure it was them?’ asked Trenchman.
The radioman sat back, removed his headphones and consulted his notes.
‘It was weak. Real weak. Faded in and out. But I got “LaNitra Frost” and I got “Mayday”.’
‘You’re sure? Couldn’t be mistaken?’
‘Yeah, I’m sure.’
‘What about the plane? Is the nuke intact?’
‘Like I said. A couple of words. Nothing coherent.’
Distant gunfire.
Osborne kicked open the office door, breathless and panicked.
‘They breached the wire, sir. End of the runway.’
‘Can they be repelled?’
Osborne shook his head.
‘Way too many.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘We’ve lost the base. We have to get going right now.’
‘All right. Hit the floods. Give us as much light as you can.’
Trenchman turned to the radio operator. ‘Pack your shit. We’re out of here.’
A floodlit slipway.
Trenchman ran up the Chinook cargo ramp.
Troops loaded crates and weapons.
A soldier climbed aboard with an arm full of bedding. Trenchman grabbed it and threw it out the rear onto the runway.
‘Food and ammo. Much as you can carry. Nothing else. Wheels up in two minutes. Don’t get left behind.’
He ran through the cluttered cargo compartment. He opened the flight-deck door. Both pilots suited and strapped, ready to haul ass.
‘We really ought to go, sir.’
They looked out the cockpit windows at the runway ahead. Receding edge lights.
Movement in the overrun.
Distant figures.
Infected had breached the wire. Troops falling back in cover/fire formation, expending clip after clip, efficient headshots left the asphalt littered with bodies. They could hear the distant crackle of gunfire. They could see flickering muzzle flame.
The pilot adjusted his grip on the joystick like he was itching to bolt: raise the ramp, spin up and take to the sky.
‘Hold your nerve, airman. Orderly evacuation. If fear takes over, we’re all fucked.’
Osborne climbed aboard the fuel truck and floored the accelerator. He drove up the runway. Full headbeams. He switched on cab beacons and hit the horn, a signal to troops to get the fuck out the way.
He swerved left, smashed edge lights and skidded to a halt. He jumped from the cab. He unhooked the fuel hose, hauled it to the centre line and threw it down on the asphalt.
The side box. PUMP START. Green light, motor hum. The hose twitched and unkinked. Fuel spluttered from the lock-cuff and washed across the runway.
A spreading lake of kerosene.
The troops fell back.
Infected shambling towards them. Fifty at least. Lurching, misshapen things, flesh torn by metallic carcinomas. Foul stink-rot. An oncoming tide of putrefaction.
‘Fire in the hole.’
Osborne struck a flare. Spit and fizz. He tossed it towards the spilt fuel.
Ignition. Blossoming flames. He backed away, shielded his face from sudden heat.
A fireball mushroomed in the night sky.
‘Get to the chopper.’
They turned and ran.
Osborne glanced back. Movement behind the wall of fire. Infected revenants walked straight into the inferno. Most of them fell amidst the flame. Major muscle groups, biceps, triceps, quads and glutes, quickly cooked and contracted, pulling them down, curling them foetal. A couple of figures made it through the fire. They walked clear, columns of flame, clothes and flesh ablaze. They stumbled blind, fell to their knees and died kneeling upright. Carbonised skin lacquered black. Bodyfat burned blue.
Trenchman stood on the Chinook loading ramp and supervised the evacuation.
‘Move your fucking asses.’
Troops grabbed what they could from tents and freight containers. Rifles. Ammo. Boxes of bean cans.
One of the soldiers ran to the chopper carrying a bag of children’s toys. He had a large, blood-stained teddy bear under his arm. He glanced at Trenchman as he ran up the loading ramp, caught the glance of disapproval.
‘Fuck you, sir. I’m bringing it.’
Trenchman stepped from the helicopter and glanced up the runway. Osborne and his men sprinted towards him. The fuel fire was already starting to die back.
‘That’s it,’ he bellowed. ‘We’re out of here. Everybody in the chopper. Get inside and strap in.’ He pointed to the jumble of ration boxes and ammo crates. ‘Throw a cargo net over that shit. Get it secure.’ He grabbed a guy wearing sergeant stripes as he sprinted up the ramp. Name strip: DAWSON.
‘Make one last sweep. Check the tents. Check the freight containers.’
The sergeant looked like he wanted to argue. He didn’t want to turn away from the cargo compartment, the light and promise of safety. Trenchman put a hand on Dawson’s chest and pushed him towards the tents.
‘Go. Make sure no one is left behind.’
Trenchman ran to the Humvee limo. Flame light from the runway fire turned white bodywork pink.
He checked for keys.
He opened the passenger door, threw a couple of AR-15s and a case of ammo into the passenger compartment.
He ran to a jumbled stack of supplies. He grabbed bottled water and a jerry can full of fuel. He threw them inside the car.
He ran back to the Chinook.
He stood at the lip of the loading ramp. Quick survey of the cargo compartment. Twenty-six guys strapped into side-seats. Sweating, fearful, desperate to be gone.
Dawson ran past, anxious to get aboard the chopper. Trenchman grabbed his arm, held him back.
‘Nobody left behind?’
‘We’re clear.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘I’m fucking sure.’
Dawson tried to pull his arm free. Trenchman maintained his grip.
‘You’re in charge now, sergeant. Get the boys somewhere remote, somewhere safe.’
‘What about you, sir?’
‘I got business elsewhere.’
Trenchman stepped from the loading ramp onto asphalt.
He took out his radio and buzzed the pilot:
‘That’s it. Get the fuck out of here.’
Escalating motor whine. The Chinook’s massive twin blades began to revolve.
Osborne unlatched his cargo seat harness and ran down the ramp to Trenchman. He shouted over escalating rotor roar.
‘What the hell are you doing?’
‘I’m going after Liberty Bell.’
‘The crew? They’re dead.’
‘What if they’re not?’
‘Then it’s a crying shame. But you don’t owe them a damned thing, Phil.’
Trenchman pointed to the flag on his sleeve. Engine scream so loud Osborne had to read his lips:
‘Got to do what I can.’
Osborne stayed by Trenchman’s side. Warning klaxon. They watched the loading ramp rise and seal shut. Last glimpse of the ribbed interior of the hold, troops strapped in opposing rows.
They crouched and covered their ears as engine noise reached a crescendo. Typhoon rotor-wash tore at their clothes, enveloped them in dust.
The Chinook ascended into the night sky.
Engine noise quickly diminished. Running strobes headed north.
Osborne lit a cigar and tossed the match. He watched infected shuffle through the dying flames of the fuel fire and head towards them, clothes ablaze.
‘Guess it’s time to go.’
They strode towards the limo.
Voices behind them:
‘Hey. Wait the fuck up.’
Two soldiers running across the s
lipway, screaming, trying to flag down the long-gone chopper.
They skidded to a halt, bellowing at distant strobes.
‘Get in the damned car,’ shouted Trenchman. He ran, grabbed them both by the shoulder and propelled them towards the limo.
They tumbled into the rear passenger compartment.
Quick glance:
MORGAN.
AKINGBOLA.
Sweating, terrified kids.
‘What happened to you guys?’ asked Trenchman. ‘How the hell did you miss the chopper?’
‘Manning a tower. Didn’t realise what was going down until it was too late.’
‘Don’t shit your pants. I’m not kidding. Combat stress. Clench, for God’s sake. We could be in here a while.’
Osborne took the wheel.
The limo pulled away, swung a wide arc and headed down the runway towards the burning figures. Cadaverous creatures reached for the automobile, got flipped across the hood, slammed aside by the fender. A cop went under a wheel, got balled up and jammed in the well. Bone-snapping disintegration, thick-tread tyre spraying fabric and flesh chunks like slurry.
Osborne ran screen-wash and wipers.
They drove through the fuel fire. Brief flurry of smoke and flame beyond the windows.
They accelerated down the runway, headed for the collapsed section of perimeter fence.
Jolt across the kerbs of Vegas Boulevard. Trenchman and the two grunts thrown around.
The vehicle lurched across the grounds of the Bali Hai Golf Club. Headbeams lit ghost figures stumbling aimlessly across the fairway.
They joined the two-one-five and headed out of town.
Trenchman relaxed on the bench seat. He turned to Osborne.
‘Either put out that damned cigar or raise the partition.’
Osborne cracked the side window for air. He opened the glove box, scattered CDs on the passenger seat. He found Cypress Hill and fed it into the dash.
Trenchman tapped a booted foot to ‘Ain’t Goin’Out Like That’.
Osborne shouted over his shoulder:
‘Looks like The Luxor is burning pretty good.’
Trenchman glanced out the window. The great bronzed glass pyramid. Infernal glow from deep within the structure. Flames licked from the broken apex. It looked like a volcano.
‘Sin City,’ he murmured. ‘Abandon all hope.’
They headed down the interstate.
16
Salt flats gave way to dunes. The limo lurched across sand. Heavy tyres cut deep chevron tracks.
Osborne, Morgan and Akingbola sat in the rear, rocking on a bench seat, sipping Diet Cokes.
Trenchman had the wheel.
‘Doing okay so far,’ he shouted over his shoulder, ‘but if the terrain gets worse, might have to park and walk.’
Morgan leant over the driver partition.
‘I don’t mean to speak out of turn, but maybe this rescue mission isn’t such a good idea. After all, we’ve got finite gas.’
‘Crew of the Liberty Bell are out here, somewhere. They’re counting on us. For our own peace of mind, we’ve got to do whatever we can.’
Noon. Tinted glass and air con shielded them from the worst of the sun. Osborne swigged pretzels from a bag and looked out at unbroken desolation.
‘They must have bailed out the plane, right? Some kind of engine fault.’
‘I guess.’
‘Wouldn’t want to find myself alone in this fucking place. Dead as the moon.’
Akingbola contemplated the shimmering heat-haze horizon.
‘Hate to say it, but if we don’t find these guys within twenty-four hours, well, this little rescue party will become a burial detail.’
The limo rolled to a halt, parked amidst an endless vista of sand.
They got out the car. Fierce heat. Fierce light.
Morgan climbed the ridgeline and looked around
Akingbola took a piss.
Trenchman and Osborne leant against the car. They contemplated the dunes a while.
Trenchman licked his academy ring and squirmed it from his heat-swollen finger. He threw it as far as he could. It arced out of sight.
He climbed onto the hood, then stepped up onto the roof.
He tuned his radio.
‘This is Colonel Trenchman, US Army, calling the crew of Liberty Bell, anyone copy, over?’
No response.
‘Liberty Bell, anyone out there, over? Anyone hear my voice?’
No response.
Suddenly tired, suddenly angry. Maybe Morgan was right. Perhaps he should have stayed aboard the Chinook, pushed the ’copter’s range to reach somewhere defensible like Alcatraz instead of risking his neck prosecuting a futile rescue mission.
He rubbed his eyes.
‘Come on, guys, talk to me. This is Trenchman, acknowledging your Mayday. I need your grids. If you can’t manage verbal communication, switch to transponder.’
Dead channel static.
17
Frost, alone on the flight deck.
She set the camcorder on the pilot console and pressed REC.
‘First night in the desert. It’s cold. Damn cold.’ She exhaled, watched her breath steam in chill air. ‘My fingers are numb. But I got to relish every second because, few hours from now, the sun will rise and we’ll burn in hellfire all over again.’
She rubbed her eyes.
‘It all happened so fast, you know? World fell apart so damned quick. Entire cities wiped out in a matter of weeks. Shit, by the time we realised we had a fight on our hands, we were already beat.
‘Must admit, I didn’t pay much attention when the outbreak began. Safe on an airbase. Whole thing: Not My Problem.
‘Spokane. Barely made the news. Some poor bastard found a half-melted lump of space junk out in the woods. Guy was some kind of survivalist. Headed into the forest with his bug-out bag to snare squirrels or some shit. Fucking ironic, right? Doomsday, end-of-the-world guy brings on Armageddon. Seems he came across a bunch of toppled trees and a smoking crater. Chunk of Soyuz buried in the soil. Remains of a fuel tank coated in some kind of carbonised residue. Dug it up thinking it might be worth a buck or two. Drove it to town strapped to the back of his pick-up. Posed with his boot planted on the thing like he was some big game hunter standing over his kill. Day later, he was quarantined in an ICU oxygen tent. FEMA locked down the hospital, taped the windows, the doors. TV crews and their satellite vans ringed the perimeter. Footage of trucks pulling up outside, guys in biohazard suits getting scrubbed in decon showers. National Guard rolled out concertina wire, set up searchlights and gun posts. Nobody in or out.
‘Know what? Looking back, they could have stopped it right there. Sacrificed the town. Dropped a nuke. Sterilised the region with a well-placed airburst. Would have killed the virus dead. But they dithered. And the moment passed.’
She sighed, looked down at her hands a while.
‘Guess that’s all it took. A few hesitations, a few bad judgement calls, cost the world.’
She hit OFF.
The lower cabin.
Noble pulled a quilted insulation blanket from the wall.
Ducting. A cluster of aluminium pipes.
He traced one of the pipes to an overhead vent.
‘This one. Air con.’
Hancock handed him a wrench.
He rapped the pipe with the wrench. Hollow chime.
‘Empty?’
‘Hard to tell.’
Noble adjusted the wrench and began to unscrew a bolt joint.
‘Ready with that canteen.’
He pulled the pipe from the wall. Metal squeal. Hancock held out the canteen and caught a brief piss-dribble of moisture.
‘Guess that’s all she’s got.’
Noble shook the last drips from the pipe. He licked the bolt-joint dry, grimaced at the metallic taste.
‘Window wash?’ suggested Hancock.
‘Thirty per cent ethanol.’
‘Maybe we could disti
l it clean.’
‘How?’
‘No idea.’
‘We could take a look at the wing, I guess. Took off with a thousand gallons of water, give or take. Engine boost. If we cut into the injector feeds we might be able to rescue a few cupfuls.’
‘We’ll need a siphon hose and some sort of container.’
Noble looked around.
‘Anyone use the urinal while we were in flight?’
‘Not that I saw.’
‘Then let’s see what we can scavenge.’
Frost went outside. She climbed a dune, sought a little solitude.
She surveyed the dark horizon, the lip of the world, the point where the starfield met the dunes.
She looked north-west. An irregularity on the horizon. Distant mountains. A snag-tooth ridgeline. The peaks had been obscured during the heat of day, but were now visible in outline as they eclipsed low constellations.
Somewhere out there was the target site. The god-forsaken stretch of wasteland they had been dispatched to sear with nuclear fire.
A distant thud. She turned round. The massive, broken airframe lit by moonlight. She watched Noble haul himself up onto the starboard wing. He held a plastic two-gallon piss bottle and a length of hose. He crouched, extended a hand and pulled Hancock up onto the wing beside him.
No doubt they were trying to siphon residual water from the plane’s sub-systems.
Probably ought to help, but she didn’t have the energy.
Noble walked the wing. Popped rivets. Split panels. He knelt, held his breath against the stink of JP8 and shone his flashlight into a fissure.
The interior of the wing. Fuel tanks. Spoiler servos and screw jack actuators.
The main manifold had broken in a dozen places. Every strut and spar greased with leaked aviation fuel.
‘Here,’ called Hancock.
The hydro-feeds.
Water injected into the turbojets on take-off, boosting each engine to seventeen thousand pounds static thrust.
Noble kicked at a buckled wing panel with his boot, hammered the aluminium sheet aside. He crouched and peered into the wing cavity.
‘The waterline is cracked. Might be able to siphon some dregs. Pass me the hose.’
He fed tube into the mouth of a fractured aluminium pipe, sucked until he drew liquid.
He convulsed, choked and spat.
