Vampire Apocalypse: Descent Into Chaos (Book 2)

by Derek Gunn

  Dave Sherman was a different matter altogether. The man was mean-looking, with a personality to match, but his experience in the Marines for the last fifteen years made personal feelings redundant, especially considering he had spent the last five of those years in Special Forces. Sherman had a thin, almost ferret-like face and had an abundance of body hair that seemed to spill from his clothes at his neckline and around his hands. He had obviously given up on the pointless exercise of shaving and he sported a full, thick beard that served to soften his narrow features somewhat. His hair was jet black but his beard, strangely, was almost white and the contrast was quite startling. The man had piercing blue eyes that shone almost fervently from the shadows of his deep-set features, and he had a large, almost aquiline, nose that was hard to avoid staring at when in conversation with him.

  Harris still hadn’t quite figured out what made the man tick but Sherman knew his weapons and had passed on invaluable training on how to move in a combat situation, assault a heavily defended target and how to report information under fire. This last was particularly invaluable as Harris and his men had previously relied upon split second timing before with no ability to signal other groups once a raid had begun and this left them vulnerable if the plan changed in any way. Sherman had educated them in how to make signals without electronic means and without arousing enemy suspicions. There was still, however, something about the marine that didn’t sit well with Harris, but he resolved to keep his suspicions to himself unless he was given a reason to look more closely.

  Their team might not be able to take on the SAS but they’d do for Harris. Scott Mitchell, Aidan Fleming and Carlos Ortega had all been employed in the retail trade before the vampires had come but had kept themselves fit. They had been put through a rigorous training schedule over the last month and had finally regained their former fitness after two years of inactivity as food for the vampires. They had no previous experience in combat but Harris needed young, fit men to fill the ranks, and these three fit the bill.

  The last new member was Deirdre (Dee) Ratigan. At five-feet-six the rest of the group dwarfed her. Her small frame was compact but well proportioned; a little too well proportioned as far as Sandra was concerned, but the Barrett XM-109 rifle strapped to her back spoke volumes about her abilities. The .50 caliber weapon was designed to give individual snipers the firepower to take on light amour, Harris was looking forward to seeing what the payload would do to the vampires; even they had to have a body to attach their heads to. Harris didn’t understand the tech-speak but knew enough to know that anything capable of penetrating an inch and a half of amour plating should do the trick nicely, even without the benefit of Pat Smyth’s magic coating on the bullets.

  Dee had an impish face and always wore her lustrous brown hair tied back in a severe bun that couldn’t take away from the sheer perfection of her bone structure. Her eyes shone like a cats and their cerulean hue seemed to spark if you looked at them in the light. Her nose was short, almost too small, but her high cheekbones took the beholder’s attention away from this small imperfection and her smooth, almost glacially perfect skin, seemed to shine with its own illumination. She was not beautiful, her chin was quite pointed and her ears too large for her petit features, but her bright personality and infectious laughter had most of the men in the camp throwing themselves at her in the hope that she would notice them.

  She had been a sniper in the army and was a crack shot. Luckily for them, she had been separated from her platoon during the final days of the war with the vampires and she had been swept up in the closing days of the war into their town just before the serum had been launched against them. As soon as she had recovered from the serum’s effects she had immediately demanded that she be allowed to return to the city where she had managed to hide her beloved Barrett.

  She had found it still wrapped in an oiled rag under the floorboards where she had hidden it before the chaos of the serum effects had taken hold. The weapon looked massive strapped to her small frame but the ease with which she handled it dispelled any doubts anyone might have as to her abilities. Anyone still not convinced only had to watch her shoot to quickly revise their opinion.

  Warkowski had been delighted when he had heard that the group had another sniper, and the two spent hours discussing scopes, wind velocity and ballistics in terms Harris had never even heard before, let alone understood. There had been severe ribbing from the others about the unlikely pair: Warkowski’s huge frame dwarfed her to an extreme that was almost comical, but anyone that knew Warkowski, and what he had gone through to find his family, knew that his only interest was in her abilities. Dee, for her part, liked Warkowski a lot but had set her sights elsewhere.

  The team had walked over a hundred miles from their new base and had spent the last day and night in the hills surrounding the town of Bertrand, watching the vampire and thrall patrols, making notes and fine-tuning their plan.

  Bertrand was one of the towns that had been annexed onto Von Kruger’s cabal when he had taken the nuclear plant. It was a small town bounded on the north by the larger settlements of Niles and Buchanan, but it was here that the thralls had stockpiled their fossil fuels for the northern part of the state. Harris had no idea why they had picked this small town but he suspected that Von Kruger may have been planning to annex a little more territory and wanted his fuel nearby.

  Either way, it suited Harris.

  The town was surrounded by lightly rolling prairie lands but the rich golden sea of wheat that used to grow in abundance now lay rotted in fields left untended and abandoned. Von Kruger had been one of the few who had started a policy of farming almost a year ago but had so few people that huge areas like this were left neglected.

  The eastern portion of the town rose into gently sloping hills, which slanted down towards the river, and Harris and his team occupied a line of low hills extending along the northern border. The thralls had built a large compound just outside the town, converting the ruins of St. Joseph’s Fort into a fuel depot. As the small party descended from the hills they could see rows of tankers and mounds of coal inside the fort. The once sturdy walls that had seen action against the French and Spanish in times gone by now lay broken and desolate, a testament to a forlorn defense against the vampires two years ago.

  The shattered and cracked remains of the ramparts seemed to reach upwards in a jagged line as if grasping despondently towards the brightening sky. Their shapes were mere shadows against the tapestry of feeble light coming from the horizon beyond, but there was enough light to see that their vigil was a lonely one and that no guards paced their ramparts. There were a few guards visible below the fort among the buildings, but this was the early shift and the thralls had become very lazy, preferring to stand near heated cabins rather than brave the cold winds that whipped at the exposed battlements. From their protected positions the guards would not see Harris and his group, so their approach, though careful, was a relatively easy one.

  They had left Warkowski and Dee Ratigan back on the higher ground, which gave them an excellent view of the barracks and the main road beyond should any reinforcements arrive during the operation. Harris motioned for the rest of the group to split into two sections; Sherman took Ortega, Fleming and Mitchell, leaving him with Tanner, Rodgers and Steele. He watched as Sherman led his men around a bluff, his large form easily negotiating the uneven ground while his men slipped and stumbled after him. He smiled to himself as he saw the Marine turn and fix the three men with a stare that would strip flesh from bone. The men moved more carefully after that.

  Dave Sherman cursed as one of the men behind him stumbled. Bloody amateurs, he thought as he shot Fleming another withering look. It was just as well that the thralls were over-confident and bloody useless or they’d all be dead. He moved on with the other three following sheepishly. The men he had were the best of a bad lot, but at least they were fit; some of the men he had been given to train had been just useless, men who thought that, just because t
hey had done a little shooting with their friends before the war, that that made them soldiers.

  It still amazed him that with so many in their community there were so few military, or even trained personnel. It was a problem he had discussed at length with Harris and one that, while Harris was sympathetic, had no answer for except that they make the best of what they had. Sherman had a lot of respect for Harris. He was no soldier but at least he knew his limitations. He had a good strategic mind but was prepared to defer to those more experienced than him when planning an operation.

  This had worried Sherman at first. While it was commendable for a leader to listen to others, it was dangerous if that leader continued to defer to others during the chaos of a field operation. Command had to be concise and definite during combat. Luckily for them, Harris was a man who listened when planning but once decided, commanded his men well. Sherman had no ambition to lead. He had been a Sergeant and was happy to lead a squad and leave the overall command to someone else, as long as they didn’t get them all killed. Besides, it allowed him more free time for other exploits. He felt himself growing aroused as his mind drifted and he forced himself to concentrate on to the task at hand. There would be plenty of time later for those pursuits, he promised himself.

  Their mission was to ensure that reinforcements were not called, or that if they were, that they could delay them long enough for the others to complete the mission. To this end he led his men around the fort to the building at the far side that housed the communications; at least, it was the only building that boasted an aerial. They had seen men enter and leave that building throughout the previous day, none staying for any long periods, so they had marked this as a priority target.

  Communications had regressed over the last two years as mobile masts had either been destroyed or proved too costly in power to keep serviced. Satellites had proved less than reliable, as lack of maintenance had meant that there wasn’t always one in range when you needed it. The thralls didn’t use them, preferring simple radio transmissions, as they did not need specialized men to operate them. As a result, centralized radio communications became the order of the day. It was short range but cabals had little desire or need to communicate with each other so short range was just fine for the thralls.

  Steele had rigged up a receiver that allowed them to hack into any local transmissions so they were aware that no patrols were due to arrive today, though anything could happen to change those plans. It was essential that they take out the communications without any alerts being sent if they wanted to succeed here today.

  Sherman motioned for his men to lie low as a thrall passed a few feet from their position. He lifted the strap of his weapon over his head and rested it on the dirt beside him and then reached down to his thigh and slid his bayonet free. He motioned for the others to stay where they were and then eased himself into a crouch and followed the guard.

  Thralls were incredibly lucky in many ways, as far as Sherman was concerned. They had the strength of three men, could run all day without keeling over, and had amazing senses. Oh, nothing like their masters, but far better than any soldier Sherman had ever seen—and he had seen some of the best. In fact, the only drawback that he could see was that they were slaves to their masters and that they were so full of themselves that they didn’t use their abilities.

  Instead of taking advantage of their incredible abilities they preferred to strut around and satiate their lusts with food and sex as and when they wanted. They could do so much more.

  Sherman had often thought how great it would be to have their abilities, but he wasn’t prepared to take the downside. The thrall in front of him should have heard him, he should have been able to turn and swat him away with ease, but instead Sherman reached the guard and slit his throat before he showed any sign that he had heard the Marine.

  Sherman let the guard fall to the ground and spat on him with contempt. To have such abilities and to waste them was unforgivable. Sherman motioned to his men and they followed him toward their target.

  The building that housed the radio was a small porta-office that, according to a sun-bleached sign in front of the building, had once housed the office that handled the administration and ticket sales for the tour of the nearby fort. It was a small structure with two rooms partitioned from each other by a stud wall. There were windows on three sides, though they were small and allowed the men to approach easily without being detected. The building was situated outside the grounds of the fort itself, but close enough that the structure lay within the shadow of the fort’s high walls. Sherman shivered as he passed from the growing heat of the sun into the cooler gloom. He made a cutting gesture to Fleming and pointed at the wire that led to the roof. He then turned and led the others towards the front of the building.

  He checked once more for any stray guards and then moved to the door. Mitchell and Ortega took up positions on either side of him and scanned the area immediately around them. Sherman reached for the handle when, suddenly, the door was pulled inwards and a guard appeared. The guard’s face was still turned towards the interior of the cabin as he finished his conversation with someone inside. Sherman reacted immediately, shot the thrall in the throat and pushed past him before he had fallen.

  The guards might be lazy but, once alerted to danger, they were amazingly fast. Sherman fired at the radio operator first and took the man with three shots to the head. There was a guard to the operator’s left who had been leaning against the radio table, but by the time Sherman had moved to cover him, the thrall had disappeared. Sherman cursed and scanned the room. The enclosed space of the room was filled with shouts, thumping feet and sustained fire as Mitchell and Ortega over-reacted and entered the room with their fingers frozen on the triggers. Bullets flew everywhere and machinery buzzed and sparked as bullets destroyed the equipment.

  Sherman couldn’t find the thrall who had escaped and he was deafened by the bedlam around him. He felt a sharp pain in his thigh as a bullet ricocheted off metal and tore into his calf. His leg collapsed and he fell heavily to the ground. The wound hurt like hell but it had probably saved his life as more bullets ripped through the air where he had stood moments before. He fell awkwardly on his arm and his aim was spoiled as his own bullets smashed through the window and added to the mad cacophony. He had a moment to see the thrall grin as he brought his weapon to bear, and then suddenly the guard pirouetted madly as round after round hit his large frame. The bullets continued on past the guard and continued to slam into the wood behind him until Ortega’s gun finally clicked empty.

  Sherman looked up into Ortega’s smiling face and grinned as the man replaced his empty magazine. He had spent weeks training these men to shoot in short, controlled bursts, and for the first time in his life he was happy that they hadn’t listened.

  Harris looked at his small team as they waited for the allotted time to pass. Sherman and his men were making their way around the back of the town and it would take them at least ten minutes to get into place so they had a little time yet before they needed to move. John Tanner sat quietly fidgeting as he checked his weapons yet again; Harris had noticed that the man did not like to be still for very long. He got very nervous when there was nothing to do and had plagued Harris over the last week or so about when they would be going out.

  The new community was hard to get used to, especially in their new quarters with its cramped living space, so he could understand the man wanting to get out. He hoped, however, that this nervousness did not signify anything that he needed to be worried about. Police work was very different to military operations and he hoped that the man was able to make the leap; otherwise, he might have to send him back to the nursery.

  Rodgers caught his eye and Harris couldn’t help feeling better, despite his own nervousness. Rodgers had an infectious, happy-go-lucky attitude that never failed to cheer everyone around him. It wasn’t that the man was too stupid to be nervous or even scared so badly that he was demented; it was just that Rodgers
accepted whatever fate could throw at him. He would do his best to come back alive, but if he fell then there was no point in worrying about it—although Rodgers had been unusually quiet of late and the grin on his face looked forced. Harris made a note to himself to have a talk with him to make sure everything was okay when he had the chance. Things had been so busy since they’d emerged from their old head quarters that no one had time to talk things through.

  Steele sat on his left and alternated between checking the guards’ positions and confirming Sherman’s route. Steele was an enigma to Harris. He was a fantastic asset, there was nobody he would rather have with him in a firefight—the man was incredible. He could move like a ghost and his ideas and strategies for their upcoming campaigns were brilliant. He understood exactly how the enemy thought and how they were deployed. He had moved freely between many communities during his service to the vampires and had seen the different ethics of each community; he was simply invaluable.

  It had been Steele’s idea to get each of the cabals to fight each other and make their job easier as they consolidated their own position. But, at the end of the day, he had also callously worked against his own kind until recently. Could he really trust Steele? What would it take for him to change sides again? On a personal note, Harris really liked Steele. The man was quiet, but despite what he had done over the last two years, he seemed to have a strong moral code. He did not use his strength or position to demand favoritism for better quarters, food or supplies. He attended all the meetings but didn’t enforce his will on others. He stated what they should do and why, he would argue his point sure enough, but not aggressively and had always accepted strategies that did not agree with his own.