Inception_The Bern Project

by M James Conway

  Both of them were out of ammo.

  It was time to end this. John stood up and climbed over the back.

  Fuck it, he thought.

  He jumped toward Rome, who was inches from the Scout. His shoulder barreled into him and both men went crashing to the ground, rolling over and over with the momentum.

  John heard the tires of the Scout screech as Morgan slammed on the brakes.

  He stood up and felt around to see if anything was broken and was briefly satisfied that nothing was. He turned to find Rome standing before him. He lunged at John, brandishing a knife in his right hand.

  John parried to his left, the knife missing him by inches.

  “I’ve been waiting for this for a very long time, you coward!” Rome was hunched over, holding the knife out in front him, slashing at John like an amateur. “I’m going to gut you like a pig!”

  John just smiled and held his hands out. “Well, what are you waiting for?”

  Rome lunged at him, the knife coming in a straight line as he telegraphed his intentions, which John anticipated.

  He stood in place, turned, and opened his body to the right. The blade barely missed him, passing within inches of his body. He caught Rome by the wrist and brought his left fist down into Rome’s elbow, forcing him to bend. He pushed Rome’s hand while holding his elbow and forced the knife to go toward Rome’s throat.

  Rome leaned back to avoid the knife, but that forced him to fall backward as John pushed, taking them both down. They landed hard, Rome on his back and John on top of him.

  John spread his legs so he could fully mount a struggling Rome and pushed his chest into both his own hand and Rome’s knife hand, forcing the sharp blade to make contact with the skin of Rome’s chest.

  Rome’s eyes grew bigger, exposing the whites. John pressed harder. He stared down at Rome and smiled. “Bet you never thought this was going to happen, huh? You did everything possible to get rid of me and yet, here we are. Me, once again, getting the upper hand.” John shook his head like a parent would to a misbehaving child. “Christ, you’re pathetic, Rome. Look at you. Look at you! You’re a pedophile, a weasel and nothing but talk. How you came to be President is anyone’s guess. But then again, a weak and cowardly club is only as good as its leader, and, well…” John made a tsk tsk sound, then continued, “…how is it that ten members can’t kill a former member and two guys? Because they have a weak leader.”

  Rome was straining to keep John from stabbing him, but found enough breath to say, “Please! Please don’t kill me, John!”

  John ignored Rome, whose face was becoming animated with fear.

  He made sure Rome was staring him in the eyes. He felt a surge of warmth and inhuman strength course through him, yet he felt completely calm. Years of looking over his shoulder were finally coming to an end. Finality. Another death by his hands. Earned.

  John pushed his weight on the hilt of the knife and felt the soft resistance give as the blade went into Rome’s chest.

  Rome’s eyes got even bigger and his mouth opened to let out a scream, but all that escaped was a trickle of blood and the smell of metal, a mixture of fear and iron.

  “Burn in hell!” John let go of Rome’s hand and grabbed the hilt of the knife, twisting it back and forth until Rome went limp, his eyes glazed over.

  He sat up, still straddling Rome.

  “You okay?” Morgan said. He was standing behind John with Russell next to him, his mouth open.

  John looked at Morgan, then at Russell, then back to Morgan. Through clenched teeth he said, “I’m fine. Let’s go.”

  “What do you want to do with him?” Morgan asked as he pointed at Rome.

  John started to walk back to the Scout, Morgan and Russell following in step with him.

  “Leave him.”

  Chapter 32

  “Anytime, now,” Redmond said. They had driven for over an hour from Seattle, navigating their way to Raider’s coordinates and doing their best to become familiar with the environment.

  After receiving a message from Raider, Redmond had decided it was time to get the operative out. The group Raider was with had not only survived, but had witnessed them deploy the virus and were able to describe him perfectly. He couldn’t have that.

  They had backed the Humvee into a thick copse of trees halfway between a trailhead south of the river and a bridge that went over the river. Using the satellite phone, Redmond pulled up a map that showed Raider’s position in the middle of a ten-acre spread about one mile due east of northeast from where they were parked.

  Redmond caught movement to the left and saw Nitro walking back to the Humvee. He had sent Nitro out to recon the bridge about thirty minutes ago, looking for hostiles or survivors or to see if there was any activity at all on the bridge that they should be worried about. Bridges had a high potential for becoming fatal tunnels, leaving two avenues of escape: toward the enemy or retreating. Redmond wanted to know everything about the bridge in case either of those two situations came to fruition.

  Nitro got in the driver seat and said, “The bridge is about one hundred yards in length by ten yards in width. Double lane, through-truss steel lattice with about five yards’ clearance. It’s newer, so it’s steady. A good twenty feet over a moving river.” He continued to stare ahead.

  “Is that all?”

  “No. Somebody has been creative. There’s rows of hay lined up on both sides, creating a one-lane entry and exit. There’s also a makeshift steel gate attached in front of that – on our end – goes from side to side. Somebody is prepared.”

  Redmond grunted. “Interesting. Raider never mentioned that.”

  Nitro shrugged. “Either way, we can’t underestimate this.”

  Redmond nodded then turned to face Wolf. “You done?”

  “Yep.” Wolf was sitting in the back of the Humvee loading rounds into his last magazine. Finished, he handed two magazines to Nitro and Redmond, who then loaded their Colt M4s.

  Redmond heard the whine of an engine in the distance, looked to his left and said, “We got company. Get ready, boys.”

  They racked their guns.

  * * *

  Morgan brought the Scout to the end of the trailhead that butted up against Mount Si Road. A few zombies were ambling to their left about two hundred yards down the road and didn’t seem to be interested in them at all, their grunts and screams barely discernable.

  “Should we shoot them?” Russell asked.

  “We’re out of ammo. And even if we weren’t, it’d still be a waste of time. Still though, best to keep it slow,” John said.

  Morgan turned onto the road and headed toward the bridge, keeping his speed at ten miles per hour.

  They got to the entrance and John said, “Well, shit. That was quick.”

  Morgan shook his head. “I can’t tell if having MacGyver with us is good or bad.”

  They drove onto the bridge and came to a stop before the hay stacks. A steel makeshift gate had been put up and looked secure, as it was anchored to both sides of the bridge. John recognized most of the pieces as steel rebar rods that ran back and forth, parallel to the surface of the road, with two thick beams running up top and one below. The entire gate had a chain-link fence backing.

  “Damn, this is nice. Honestly, Hetebro, I didn’t know you had this much shit in your workshop,” Morgan said.

  John laughed. “Neither did I.”

  “It’s nice, but how do we open it?” Russell said from the back. He kept checking behind them to see if anyone was coming, but so far they were alone.

  “I hate feeling this naked. No ammo, knives. Nothing. Let’s hurry this up,” John said, and got out. He walked up to the gate and examined it, looking for some sort of locking mechanism. He didn’t see anything. He pushed and pulled on the top steel beam and it didn’t budge, a testament to its strength.

  “We could always climb over it, leave the Scout here, and then come back,” Morgan said.

  “Frankie would kill
me if we left the Scout here, especially with, what, three cans of fuel? I’ll be damned if I’m going back today to get more and I am not carrying those cans down the road.” John walked to the east end of the gate and saw that it was attached to the bridge with steel couplings that wrapped around a steel beam, secured tight. There were hinges that told him that it opened up toward them, meaning the latch or locking mechanism was on the other side.

  He started walking to that side when he heard a cracking sound and saw a flutter of movement coming from the Scout.

  Time seemed to slow down as his brain took a few extra seconds to realize that the sound was that of a rifle shot. His ears became hot and an echoing ring resonated in his ears. Blood started coursing through his body and his heart rate picked up. Before he knew it, and without conscious thought, he found himself face down in front of the Scout, with Morgan coming to a sliding stop next to him.

  “Where’d it come from?” John asked

  Morgan shook his head, telling John he had no idea, but his face told him something else was wrong.

  “Where’s Russell, Morgan?”

  Again, Morgan shook his head and said, “Russell is hit.”

  John did his best to get up and peer over the hood of the Scout. Another shot rang out. He ducked, but thought he saw a flash coming from the trees. He lay down prone and craned his head to look under the Scout. He was expecting to see a few motorcycles from some of the members of The Crush that may have gotten away. Instead, a Humvee pulled out of the woods and accelerated toward them.

  Morgan saw the same thing and worked his way to the passenger side of the Scout, which was parked at a slight angle towards the center of the bridge. He duck-walked and popped his head up every few seconds to keep a visual.

  John scooted to the driver’s side and peeked around the corner. Another shot rang out and panged off the fender, mere inches from John’s head.

  “Shit!” John looked over to Morgan. “Can you see Russell? He okay?”

  Morgan didn’t respond, but another rifle shot told John that Morgan had tried to look and see. Finally, Morgan said, “I think so.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “I can hear him groaning. I think he’s fine. We have to figure out a way out of here. Who the hell is this?”

  “Nobody good.” The Humvee came to a screeching stop about twenty yards behind the Scout. John heard doors open and saw under the Scout that there were three pairs of boots. One pair stood by the front of the SUV while the other two moved tactically, one to each side of the Scout.

  They were trapped. John tried to think of a way to get out of this, but being unarmed meant the odds were against them. He had no problem trying to disarm any of these men, but once he did, he had no idea how the other men would respond, and since Morgan would have a man on him, he didn’t want Morgan to get shot.

  They were outnumbered three to two and that was just with the men he was able to see from under the Scout.

  He stood up and turned around with his hands up. He came face to face with a man.

  “Well, well, well. Lookie what we have here, huh, boys? We got ourselves some survivors.” The man looked into the back of the Scout, then back to John. “Well, make that two survivors.”

  John faced the man.

  He was a bit shorter than John, but thicker. He had long bushy red hair with a mutton-chop beard and beady black eyes.

  He was wearing dark gray digital camouflage over black tactical boots. He had an M4 affixed to a sling pointed at John’s head. The man looked exactly like the one he had seen on the patrol boat behind the trigger of the cannon that had shot the fog at the shore of Myrtle Edwards Park.

  “And talk about surprises, huh?” A white guy about John’s age and size stood with his rifle pointed at Morgan, inches from his head. He had a thick mustache and burly forearms. John was pretty sure he was the second man he had seen on the boat. The third man was black, athletic looking and wore the same uniform as the other two men. He kept his rifle up and pointed at both John and Morgan, but remained where he was.

  John looked at each of the three men and knew that those responsible for all that had happened over the last few days had found them in North Bend. The only question was, how did these men find them? Why did these men find them? Was it by chance? Or were they led here? And if so, what did they plan to do?

  These were questions that John kept in the back of his mind. For now, he just had to get out of this alive.

  The man in front of Morgan said, “Small world, huh Morgan?”

  John looked over and saw Morgan giving his pre-murder stare at the man, calm. “Well, looks like the rat was able to find some work, huh? You still have that tiny little dick?”

  The man in front of Morgan backed up a few steps. His face turned a crimson red. He brought the M4 up and pointed it at Morgan’s head. Morgan stood and stared into the barrel of the M4, willing it to fire.

  He winked at the man.

  Then John heard a gunshot.

  Chapter 33

  The gunshot sounded, but the wrong head exploded. John saw the man in front of Morgan holding the rifle fall backwards. Morgan went with him, though he went because he was forcing himself to, driving into the man holding onto his rifle in a death grip.

  As expected, the red-headed man standing in front of John looked over, taking his eyes away from his target. This gave John the brief moment he needed. He grabbed the barrel of the man’s M4 and pushed up, forcing him to lean backwards. John used the momentum to continue his fall. Both men landed hard on the pavement with John on top. A repeat of how he took Rome down. The sling became tangled around the man’s throat and John continued to push, forcing the sling tighter around his neck.

  He threw a few quick elbows onto the man’s head, forcing his skull to bounce off the pavement, rendering him unconscious.

  More gunshots rang out, but they came from the other side of the bridge.

  John sat up, the snapping of bullets flying over his head from both directions landing into the metal frame of both the Scout and the Humvee.

  He lowered himself and dragged the unconscious man toward him by the front of the Scout and away from the gunfire. He did a quick pat down and found several pairs of white plastic flex cuffs. He ripped two out and secured the man’s hands behind his back and then secured his ankles. He grabbed another pair and used it to hogtie the man, joining the ankles and wrists together. He looked up behind him to find the source of the gunshot and saw Sims crouching down on the second highest level of hay, using the top level to aim his fire at the man by the Humvee.

  Sims yelled, “Russell! Where is Russell?”

  John yelled up to him, “He’s hit, but he’s okay.” He had no idea that they were now caught in a crossfire.

  “You made a big mistake, you piece of shit!” The man had come to and was yelling from the ground below him. “You have no clue what you just did!”

  John looked down to him and said, “Hey.”

  The man looked up.

  John threw a quick rabbit punch to the side of the man’s head, making it bounce off the concrete, and it was lights out again.

  John scooted closer to the front center of the Scout and almost ran into Morgan, who was now carrying an M4, crouching down.

  He smiled from ear to ear and held it up to John. “It’s got that three-round burst!”

  An engine revved in the background and John heard the transmission going into gear.

  Shit, the third guy, he thought.

  He grabbed Morgan and pushed him away from the front of the Scout and then picked up the unconscious redheaded man and threw him over his shoulder, grunting as he did.

  The third man drove the Humvee right toward them. John ran and jumped over the side, into the river, he and the unconscious man hitting the water. He came up for air, heard the groaning of metal on metal and saw Sims moving like a marionette with a broken string, trying to keep his balance from the collision while standing on top of the hay.<
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  Ultimately, gravity won and Sims fell over and landed in the water, coming up for air right next to John, who was now paddling toward the shore, the current carrying them further west, but still within visual of the bridge.

  John got out of the water and carried the unconscious man to the shore. He then helped Sims to his feet, who took off with the rifle up toward the bridge, disappearing down a makeshift trail with fire in his eyes. Morgan followed them, swimming to the shore, having fallen over the other side of the bridge. His faded pink Mohawk slapped wet against his face.

  John looked up to the bridge from the shore. The black Humvee backed up then rammed the gate again. The bridge shook from the impact and several hay bales toppled over.

  Frankie, who was standing on the opposite side, fired shotgun blasts into the tires of the Humvee, rendering it immobile. He then ran around to the driver’s side and held a shotgun up to the window but didn’t pull the trigger. He yelled at the driver but John couldn’t make out what he was saying.

  Morgan had taken off at a run toward the bridge, using Sims’ man-made trail, and John followed carrying the prisoner. He heard Morgan scream, followed by more commotion. He heard his name being called. “John! John!”

  John took fast and clumsy strides as he ran uphill toward the bridge, the unconscious man’s head bouncing off a tree every once in a while.

  He got to the top and saw Sims and Frankie standing with Morgan kneeling down between them.

  They were all leaning over somebody lying on his back.

  He got to the group and set the unconscious man down next to the bound and gagged driver. He looked at what they were seeing.

  Steve lay on his back in a pool of blood.

  * * *

  Frankie had turned the Humvee off and came running over. “What happ…oh…Jesus!”

  John stood to the right of Russell, who was holding his right arm, blood soaking through his shirt. John looked at him, “You okay?”