The End Time Saga Box Set [Books 1-3]

by Greene, Daniel

  Kinnick waved a hand. I do not need to be reminded of my age. My knees, back, and neck do that enough. “None taken, Master Sergeant. Lucky for you, we won’t need to teach these old war dogs any new tricks. Just make sure everyone is on the same page. We have to work with what we got. Make sure we are ready to go in thirty mikes,” Kinnick said, using a bit of military lingo that rolled nicely off his tongue. Been too long.

  “Operation Runaway will be a go in thirty,” Master Sergeant Hunter said, taking his leave. Kinnick cringed. The last thing he needed was the men already feeling like they were being defeated.

  General Travis had pieced together the last of his gunslingers. It was his way of saying he had full faith in this mission. Operation Runaway Scrape. Usually operational names were catered to make military operations sound politically correct and just. Operation Enduring Freedom or Operation Uphold Democracy. Nothing like Operation “We are Going to Bomb You into the Stone Age” or “Operation Bullet to Your Brain.”

  Ever the full-blooded Texan, General Travis had named the operation after his home state’s revolt against Mexico, where the Texans had evacuated their homeland on the run from the superior Mexican Army. Although the Texans suffered a series of massacres at the hands of the Mexicans, in the end the Texans won. A bit of hope after tough times. I wonder where I fall into that series of battles. Hopefully not Goliad.

  Master Sergeant Hunter waved over the bear man, Lewis, who grinned at Kinnick with a meaty-pawed salute and picked up Kinnick’s pack.

  “Sir, let me grab that for you.” He slung Kinnick’s hundred-pound pack on his back as easily as if it were a child’s knapsack and spun, walking quickly to the helo.

  “Sergeant Lewis, no need.”

  “Can’t hear you sir, but which bird you riding in, Crockett or Bowie?”

  “I’m in Bowie with you and Hunter. Do not take my pack, soldier.”

  “What’s that?” Lewis cupped a free hand to his ear. The soldier marched away ignoring Kinnick’s protests.

  The gunslingers could be a handful, but it was their way. The pilots had followed Travis’s suit, naming their helicopters after Texan Independence war heroes. Kinnick laughed to himself. At least these guys still had a sense of humor. They would need it because General Travis had tasked them with an impossible mission. Find the needle in the haystack. More like find a needle at the bottom of the ocean with hundred-pound weights attached to your feet, blindfolded while you bleed out in a feeding frenzy of tiger sharks. At least they would reach the bottom quicker.

  The two helicopters lifted off the Pentagon courtyard twenty-nine minutes and thirty seconds later. Kinnick slapped on his headset so he wouldn’t be deafened by the UH-60 rotor blades cutting through the air. The men took their seats around him dressed in full kit. Extended mags, frag grenades, blades, sidearms, and zip-ties decorated their torsos and legs.

  The helicopters spun around in the air, giving the men a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view of the destruction of Northern Virginia. My family is out there, and I am leaving.

  Arlington’s glass-and steel-clad office buildings sat dormant. Apartment towers smoldered. No traffic inched along Virginia Interstate 66. The PGC defense firm sign, normally glowing blue, settled in a blacked-out gray. White-painted letters spelled out HELP across their rooftop. The destruction of the capital he had lived in, worked in, and defended gave him a surreal feeling as the helicopter floated upward. It was as if he watched a movie, rather than looked down upon the epicenter of the most powerful nation in the world.

  I will most likely die on the mission. If my family yet lives, I most certainly will never see them again. He swallowed the lump in his throat. Worst father.

  Across the Potomac River, Washington, D.C. crumbled like old photos of a bombed-out St. Paul’s Cathedral in World War Two. Fires burned whole blocks of the capital, with no end in sight, and thick black smoke polluted the air. No firefighters responded. They were all infected, dead, or hiding.

  Master Sergeant Hunter, in Oakley shades to block the rising sun, tapped his shoulder and pointed out at the city. The dome of the Capitol building sunk inward, dark smoke emitting forth from a gaping hole in the iconic white building. The building itself was stained black with soot. Small shapes of people slowly moving across the white steps were no doubt infected.

  Master Sergeant Hunter smiled. “Do you think Congress will have the budget done for the new fiscal year?”

  The Bear smiled. “Probably will furlough us again. Give me a nice IOU letter for my credit card,” Lewis remarked.

  “Yeah,” Kinnick whispered into his headset. Despite his men’s attempt at levity, the scene hammered away at his soul with a jackhammer.

  Was there no hope? His heart hurt in his chest. The nation he loved so dearly was dying before their eyes. Gut check time. Time to suck it up and hit the ground running.

  “Crockett, take the lead west; Bowie will follow,” he said. The pilot nodded and flicked a switch above his head, moving his feet on the yaws.

  The helicopters tilted on their sides, turning further west into the countryside of Northern Virginia. The noose tightened around them. But at least, it was a fight.

  STEELE

  Hills of West Virginia

  The mobile lounge’s engine emitted a low chug-chug-chug-chug. The windshield was gone and air flowed freely through the vehicle. The cool wind bit at them, cutting through blankets and clothes alike. Bullet holes had riddled the vehicle and the wind whistled through them.

  Steele’s head throbbed in time with the grind of the engine. In fact, he wondered if the engine’s perpetual grinding was intentional: a slow pounding to his skull until it killed him. His headaches were long and fierce and seemed to come on with a fervor and retreat with no rhyme or reason. He rubbed his brow and caught Gwen staring at him from her seat across the aisle.

  Concern etched the outline of her face. Clear eyes judged his well-being with the knowingness of a mother although she had yet to have that privilege. He gave her a faint smile; more of a grimace.

  “I’m fine,” he said, soft as a breeze. Anything louder would cause his skull to explode. Her features were soft, but her high cheekbones were more prominent now. She withheld her wide smile that dimpled twice on her right side. Even as worry creased her forehead, she turned his mood better. I don’t know why she ever thought she had to wear makeup. Her ’90s prom dress made him want to laugh, but he couldn’t get away from the headache bouncing in his head like a pinball machine.

  “You don’t look fine,” she rebuked. “In fact, you look like death.”

  He closed his eyes. His lids felt like iron curtains. “I promise, I am fine.” His stomach roiled with the snare drum in his skull.

  “You’re lying.” She folded her arms across her chest.

  “Of course I’m lying, but I’m getting better,” he lied again.

  “You okay, buddy?” Mauser called from the front driving compartment. His eyes met Steele’s in the rearview mirror, his hands rotating the Lunchbox’s large steering wheel.

  Steele would never know why, but Mauser loved to drive the giant transportation vehicle. He took the vehicle up and over the West Virginia hills with the skill of a veteran driver.

  “Geeze, you two. I’m fine. And you yelling back and forth isn’t helping.”

  “Got it,” Mauser yelled back.

  Steele massaged his temple in defeat. Kevin sat near Gwen and across from him. The tall man sat with his head low. Kevin’s hands were shoved in the front pocket of his WVU sweatshirt. The only person who looks more burnt out than me is Kevin.

  Steele switched sides on the mover using the teardrop handrails to steady himself across the aisle. He plopped down next to Kevin. Kevin fidgeted uncomfortably at the close proximity.

  “What?” Kevin said.

  Better to be out with it. “I didn’t know they were your family.”

  Kevin looked up at him like a beaten dog. His beard was faint, mostly only sprouting fro
m the tip of his chin. Steele could see it in his eyes now. Puck and him shared the same eyes. They were dark brown, almost black, as if they were made from a slightly earthier piece of coal. The same mean eyes that had howled for Steele’s death while they fought. Almost the same eyes that pled for mercy as infected had torn him apart. Kevin blinked and averted them forward.

  “College was my way out. It was my escape from that kind of life. Then when college was over, four years later, I found myself going back to the same town I grew up in. Guess you never get too far away from the tree.” Kevin sniffled a bit. He wiped his nose with a sleeve.

  “Sometimes I feel like I’ve gotten too far away from my home,” Steele said. Trees zipped by glassless windows. Unfamiliar land. Foreign hills. Not unlike the trees where he grew up, but not the same either. Not as foreign as the different countries he was stationed in abroad, but not home. The land reminded him of his family and his land that was so far away. Things worth fighting for.

  “And I feel like I never escaped mine,” Kevin said.

  “Yet here we sit on the same road,” Steele said. He sucked in air through his nose. “I don’t regret doing what I did.” I don’t. Some people need to be put down.

  Kevin nodded. “I don’t expect an apology. You did right on account of your people. But what did I do to mine?”

  Steele didn’t know what to say. How can I claim to understand the decision Kevin had to make in order to help me? I know I was doing the right thing, but does he? He sat in silence next to his friend, unsure how to console him.

  “Puck used to beat me growing up. My dad drank and beat the tar out of him. Puck was bigger and older and he would turn around and beat the tar out of me. Even when it got bad, I still think he got the worst of it. I would hide from them and read everything I could get my hands on. Mostly my grandpa’s old books on the Civil War.” Kevin’s eyes went distant as if he relived the memory. “I would imagine myself standing on Little Round Top at Gettysburg with Colonel Chamberlain and the 20th Maine, and every single Confederate charging up that smoky tree-laden hill had Puck’s face on it, and I could never pull the trigger. Maybe that’s just who I am. I hated Puck, but could never stand up to him.” Kevin shook his head as he remembered. “He was a miserable son of a bitch. Thank you for putting him out of his misery, and mine.”

  Steele placed a hand on Kevin’s knee. “I wish I hadn’t had to.”

  “Believe me, I’m not. We don’t get to pick our families, but mine was rotten. There is still love even in the worst of them. Ashley is still my family as much as I wish she wasn’t. Show her some mercy.”

  Steele gulped down his anger for the woman. She sat there pretending not to listen in, eyes averted out the windows, greasy blonde hair clumping together in stringy strands. Her arms were folded beneath her chest.

  “You’re related to her too?”

  “Yeah. Pretty messed up, huh?” Kevin turned his eyes aside in shame. “I didn’t pick them.”

  “She ambushed us,” Steele said. He looked to Kevin for acknowledgment that Ashley was wrong. A bad person. A person who deserved worse than she got.

  “And you ambushed them. And I helped you.” Kevin’s lips trembled.

  Do the right thing. Do the right thing. Get over yourself and move ahead. Sometimes living with oneself is worse than death. Steele gulped his anger inside. “I’m not like them. She will be safe with us.” The words burned his tongue.

  “I know she will. That’s why I’m with you and not them.”

  “You may be related to Puck, but you aren’t that man. You are a man who helped people in desperate need.” Steele squeezed his leg and stood.

  Kevin nodded, lips tight. “I go where you lead,” he said.

  “I’m leading us to call it a day. My head is killing me and I’m hungry.”

  Kevin gave him a half-smile.

  Steele stood up, holding a handrail for support. “Let’s get this thing off the road to a clear area so we can hunker down for the night. We need to figure out a way to get those shackles off Eddie.”

  “That’s right. Get these things off me,” Eddie called back with a nod. The older African American man held up his chains at Steele.

  “Ideas? Something heavy? Or sharp?” Steele said. Everyone dug around the mover, rooting through supplies and opening bench seats. After minutes, Steele sat back down by Eddie.

  “We will find something.”

  Eddie’s eyes teared up. “You are a kind man, but get me out of these.” Eddie’s voice rose in conviction.

  “You could shoot the chains,” Gwen said pensively. Steele took a look at his black AR-15. The lightweight carbine. The modern-day musket.

  “I’d rather not waste the bullets or risk putting another hole in the Lunchbox.”

  “It’s not as if it doesn’t have enough of those already,” Mauser yelled from the front.

  Steele was at a loss. “We’ll find a rock or something when we stop,” he said to Eddie.

  Eddie shook his head. “No.” He was tired of being pushed around and abused. “Risk the shot. I want these off. Now.” Eddie held the chains up at Steele.

  “Don’t put a fucking hole through the gas tank, you dumb ass. Your tomahawk’s underneath the driver’s seat,” Ashley piped up. She managed to look disinterested and annoyed at the same time. The blonde hadn’t said anything to them since their departure from the moonshiner camp. She gestured to it with a flip of her wrist. “Casey hid some shit under there.”

  Steele walked to the front, using the handrails like playground monkey bars. He crouched down and patted his hand underneath the seat until he wrapped his fingers around the handle. He held up his old tactical tomahawk; the foot-long handle was topped off with a three-inch wedge-shaped blade with a spike on the other side. He spun it around in a circle, flipping it over his hand and catching it by the handle.

  “Let’s see what the hawk can do. Eddie, pull those chains tight.”

  Eddie knelt down on the floor. He spread his wrists wide, pulling the chain taut. “Don’t miss,” he said, eying Steele warily.

  Steele crouched down. “I won’t, buddy, but better turn your head to the side.”

  Eddie’s eyes went wide. “Oh hell, no.”

  “Mauser, stop this thing.”

  “You got it.” The mover rolled to a stop, causing Steele to take a step back. He regained his balance and lined up his tomahawk with Eddie’s chains. He took a few practice swings to get down his spacing and timing, then cocked his arm back behind his head. His knuckles turned white as he gripped his tomahawk hard. He gritted his teeth and slammed the tomahawk home. Sparks flew from the chain and the hawk bounced upward.

  Eddie eyed his chains fearfully; they were still intact. “You didn’t get it.”

  Steele licked his lips. “Couple more swings.” He swung the light hand axe forcefully over and over against the chains. A link in the middle began to split.

  “You’re gettin’ it,” Eddie yelled, but Steele ignored him, totally immersed in his task. He hammered it again, letting the fire rise up inside of him. Rage bubbled up from his interior, from the lower depths of his soul. A rage that he didn’t know existed. A dark part of his soul. The rage drove him. Rage against the infected. Rage against Puck. Rage against his new life. He beat the chains, fury enveloping him. Sweat poured from his face. Eddie would be free.

  When he stopped, he found himself yelling. Incoherent words screamed from his mouth. His voice dropped off, the sound emitting from his gut disappearing. The rage slunk away back inside him, a retreating snake into its hole.

  He held the tomahawk up at eye level. The head was chipped and dented from its war against the chains. He would have to sharpen the blade again. The eyes of his people stared at him.

  His chest heaved.

  “I’m …” he started. The words hung in the air.

  Eddie slowly stood upright, his arms hanging at his sides. His arms were free of constraint, his unjust bondage rectified. Eddie nodded
to Steele.

  “Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me for doing the right thing. We should have gotten you out of those sooner.”

  He sat back down on the mover bench and tossed his tomahawk on the seat cushion. He ran a hand through his hair, gingerly skirting the wound. Everyone still watched him, frozen motionless in the large cabin of the people mover.

  “What?” he asked.

  Mauser turned back around in his driver’s chair. The others took their seats as the mover revved up again.

  “Somebody find me a place to crash for the night.” Steele put his head in his hands again embracing the pain.

  KINNICK

  Northern Virginia

  At a hundred and forty miles per hour, the helicopters made quick work of the scourged landscape, and twenty minutes later Kinnick’s teams circled the Mount Eden Federal Emergency Operations Facility.

  Kinnick gazed down at the harsh scene below. Tents were trampled and ripped into pieces of material. Trucks were tipped over on their sides. Bodies lay in the roads. No signs of life remained, although there were plenty of signs that the infected had made their way through. The helicopters continued to circle, indecisive predators hunting for prey. They searched for anything that indicated the doctor was there.

  “Our quick intel brief stated there’s a base underground,” Master Sergeant Hunter called over the thump-thump of the rotors.

  “That’s correct. We haven’t heard from them in days,” Kinnick yelled back. Master Sergeant Hunter nodded, eying the destruction below.

  What a bag of dicks. Odds were no one was alive. Especially not the doctor. Odds were hundreds if not thousands of infected resided in the area. The helicopters would probably draw the bastards in. The whirling of the rotors may as well have been a dinner bell for the living dead. They didn’t have the time nor the fuel to waste flying around aimlessly.