The Tide: Iron Wind (Tide Series Book 5)

by Anthony J Melchiorri

  His old office was almost unrecognizable. Where once a picture of Marie and Philip had sat on a wide wooden desk, now metal scale-models of various Air Force helicopters were lined up in a neat row across a modern glass desk. The chair was a minimalist piece instead of the lush leather beast Frank used to sit in. Framed certificates and diplomas for a Leonard G. Craft decorated the otherwise-barren walls.

  Something besides the decor caught his eye. Long streaks of dried blood traced a path out of the office and into the lobby, as if someone had been dragged by their blood-covered fingers into the next room.

  “Well, that’s another new addition,” Frank muttered to himself, scanning the office for a weapon.

  But before he found one, a low growl sounded from the doorway. A Skull appeared, one arm hanging from its socket by strings of sinew, the other intact and laced with bony growths jutting out like daggers. A leather jacket hung off one shoulder, fur lining the collar, both sleeves torn off, but a metal name badge still gleamed in the moonlight filtering in through the window: Leonard G. Craft.

  “I hate what you’ve done with the place,” Frank said, his muscles tensing and fingers curling into fists.

  He didn’t have time for another quip before the monster snarled, its cracked lips tearing back to reveal a mouthful of needle-pointed teeth.

  One bullet left, Frank thought morbidly as he rushed the beast.

  -12-

  Dom had always made his decisions guided by a simple principle: the right choice was the one that saved the most lives. In a world devastated by the Oni Agent, that left one option. “We’re moving out. Glenn, Jenna, Terrence, Renee, unless you found something good, meet us back by the west exit. Meredith found us a boat.”

  “Roger that, Captain,” Glenn’s deep voice called back over the comm link.

  “Meredith, Andris, get your asses down here, too.”

  “Happy to,” Meredith responded.

  When they had all gathered, Dom split the salvageable supplies from the destroyed Zodiac among them. “Glenn, Terrence, you’re on rearguard. Miguel, you’re on point.” Together, they moved as one around the stacks of crates and planks of wood and heaps of junk metal. Miguel reached one of the rear doors to the warehouse. His hand wrapped around the handle as Dom sidled up to him, rifle shouldered and ready to take out any lingering threats. With a subtle nod from Dom, Miguel whipped the door open, taking care not to slam it against the wall.

  A single hunched Skull twisted to face them.

  Dom reacted out of pure instinct. His optical sights centered on the monster, and his finger squeezed the trigger to release a short burst of suppressed fire. The bullets found their home in the creature’s chest, shattering armor and rupturing organs. To Dom’s relief, no other Skulls howled or charged, and he signaled the group forward. But the sensation he was being watched scratched at the back of his neck. It unnerved him as they crept across a muddy incline toward the edge of the jungle.

  Ringing metal still sounded out as Skulls threw themselves at the front of the building. While most of the beasts had gathered on the east side, others still skulked between the trees leading west. Dom spotted a group of three stumbling over a twisting root pushing up from the soil like a sea serpent. His muzzle remained trained on them as they approached the trio. The other Hunters breathed in quick bursts, their weapons at the ready. He could sense their anticipation before he gave the signal to cut the Skulls down. A volley of bullets shredded the monsters, and their skinny bodies dropped into the foliage.

  These Skulls seemed especially emaciated. Maybe they’d been weak from hunger. Could that be why they hadn’t joined the others in the desperate battle near the crane and warehouse?

  Dom didn’t have long to entertain his curiosity when something exploded from the brush to his right. Swiveling, he targeted the Skull with his rifle. But a twisting feeling in his gut made him pause before he pulled the trigger.

  “Drooler,” he whispered.

  From the corner of his eyes, he saw Miguel, Meredith, and Jenna lower their rifles. The Drooler stumbled forward, favoring its right leg. Ropes of acidic saliva dangled from the edges of its half-melted jaw. Its belly appeared sunken in except for the pockets of gurgling liquid churning behind its loose skin. Remnants of old jungle camouflage fatigues hung from its limbs. Its lips opened as a gargling sound belched from its mouth.

  The thing was primed to explode, ready to spray acid at any moment. Firing at the creature now would risk rupturing the creature’s belly, resulting in everyone receiving a hot bath of scalding acid. Dom didn’t want to test the new microparticle coatings Lauren’s team had given their fatigues if he could avoid it. He gestured for the others to cover him as he rushed to meet the charging beast. The scent of bile and rot reached Dom long before the creature did. He ignored the pungent odor and leapt at the Drooler, cocking his rifle back.

  He planted one knee into the Drooler’s chest and slammed the stock of the rifle into the Drooler’s skull. The monster’s head flicked violently to the right. Bone crunched and then caved in around its scalp. It fell, and for a moment, Dom thought the fight was over. But the Drooler cranked its neck around and let loose the acid.

  The geyser of corrosive liquid was aimed at Dom. His quick reflexes were no match for the sheer volume of acid spewed by the Drooler. His chest armor got the worst of it, but a drop hit his cheek. It burned, but he pushed past the pain, knowing he had to protect the rest of his team. He planted three rounds into the Drooler’s head, devastating what remained of its face. More acid spilled from its open jaws, sizzling as it scorched tree roots and ferns.

  The spot on Dom’s cheek continued to burn until Meredith rushed to his side and splashed his face with water.

  “Dom, didn’t your mom ever teach you not to play with exploding monsters filled with acid?” Meredith asked.

  “Missed that lesson.” His cheek still stung, but there was no pain from the acid that had splashed across his chest. “Remind me to buy Lauren and the team a drink later.”

  Meredith washed away the remaining acid on his chest. “Her team did damn good. Probably deserve more than a drink. Maybe a raise?”

  “Don’t give them any ideas,” Dom said.

  “I could use a drink,” Miguel said. “Or at least some goddamned AC. It’s too hot out here.”

  Dom checked his fatigues one last time to make sure the acid had been thoroughly washed off. Meredith was right; the science team deserved a hell of a lot more than a drink. A hit like that should’ve been deadly. But there was little time to celebrate his science team’s achievement. Surviving the Drooler’s acid would be of little use if he couldn’t get his team safely to the ferry and figure out their next move.

  “Forward,” he said to the team.

  Maintaining his point position, Miguel guided the group along a winding path. He and Dom were forced to slice through twisting knots of vines with the machetes they’d at least had the foresight of bringing in their packs. They pushed through the hanging vines roping around tree branches and thick tree trunks, stepping over layers of leaves in various stages of decay. It was almost impossible to traipse through the jungle without making noise.

  Distant howls from the Skulls in Soyo permeated the jungle. A tingle of anxiety still sparked within Dom as he waited for those voices to erupt unexpectedly somewhere closer to their position. The Hunters’ belabored breaths sounded around him as he kept his ears open for the occasional groans and crunching footsteps of nearby Skulls. They ran across several monsters, but most went down easily with a stealthy swipe of a blade or a smattering of suppressed gunshots.

  The smell of death hung heavy in the air, piercing the intense, complicated aroma floating off the myriad of flowers and trees. Then something caught Dom’s eye before he stepped over another rotting log. The stark whiteness of the object stuck out against the mottled greens of the jungle. He held up a fist to slow the group and bent to get a closer look. As he studied the jungle bed, he noticed more fra
gments of white. It didn’t take long to realize what they were: human bones. Not so much as a morsel of meat or sinew hung off the bones. Many were cracked open, their marrow sucked dry. Dom gingerly moved aside a fern to get a better view at a half set of ribs. Between the ribs he spotted a glinting piece of metal. A knife blade.

  Miguel tapped Dom’s shoulder. He pointed to his eyes, then to his right. Vines and plants had been cut down to reveal a path that intersected with theirs. It seemed as if they hadn’t been the only ones to travel this way. A sinking feeling sucked at Dom’s stomach. All along that intersecting path he spied the crooked and broken skeletal remains of what looked like a small army, spread among the plants as if this were some dark garden of human remains. Between the bones and the plants growing to reclaim the pathway, rifles, pistols, and blades littered the ground. Judging by the sheer number of weapons and bones, the force that had perished here had numbered ten, maybe even twenty times as many as the Hunters.

  Whatever killed them had apparently attacked with unparalleled ferocity and effectiveness. He saw nothing but human remains. What kind of Skulls had done this to these people, yet escaped with nary a casualty among their ranks?

  Again, he felt the eyes of something watching him. Maybe hidden Skulls, maybe wary survivors, maybe the ghosts of the deceased.

  He shuddered.

  What the hell was he leading his people into? He looked at the Hunters. Miguel cocked his head and gave him a quizzical look. He could tell exactly what the Hunter was asking: “What now, Chief?”

  Before Dom could answer, something caused the ground to vibrate. A tree fell near their position, crashing through the jungle canopy. The overwhelming smell of rot washed over them, and Dom signaled everyone to retreat into the dense trees. They ducked behind the logs and ferns, blending into their surroundings.

  Dom gripped his rifle, ready to fire. He prayed it wouldn’t come to that. At first he thought the rumblings were from a passing Goliath. But as the trees continued to shake, birds taking flight and monkeys howling, he feared there must be more than one Goliath trampling the woods in their direction. The forest floor trembled as if the Earth itself shivered from fear.

  Dom caught a glimpse of armored plates through the dense foliage. He couldn’t see the whole creature, only fragments, but it was bigger than any Goliath they’d ever faced.

  More footsteps rumbled through the trees like thunder. The creature, whatever it was, wasn’t alone.

  -13-

  Frank took the pistol from his waistband and leveled it at the Skull’s head. His finger started to squeeze the trigger as his heart climbed into his throat, but the Skull suddenly ducked. He let the trigger go, unwilling to waste his remaining bullet, and juked left to dodge the Skull. The monster crashed into a bookshelf, spilling the paperbacks and flight manuals. A framed picture of the former Leonard G. Craft’s family fell to the floor. The glass broke, and shards pinged across the faux tile.

  Growling, the Skull charged, and Frank dove over the desk. The creature slammed into the office wall. Cracks fissured, spreading from the site of impact, and several of the framed certificates and degrees crashed to the ground. Leonard didn’t seem to care about his credentials now as he prepared to charge Frank again.

  The monster leapt at Frank and collided with the sleek, modern glass desk instead. The glass exploded, but the Skull kept going until it slammed into Frank. The impact knocked the breath out of him. The Skull lifted its good hand, ready to slice Frank’s exposed neck.

  The claws came down in an arc, and Frank parried the blow with the pistol. The move deflected the scything claws but also sacrificed Frank’s grip on the weapon. The handgun skittered across the floor and came to a stop at the opposite wall near the door.

  The Skull struck again, and Frank twisted in time for the claws to embed themselves in the wall. His heart hammered against his ribs, and adrenaline tore through his vessels like a riptide. The Skull leaned in with its serrated teeth. Rancid breath washed over him. The Skull’s bloodshot eyes widened, and its over-calcified ears seemed to press flat against the side of its head like a rabid dog. Flecks of the Skull’s saliva sprayed Frank’s face as it chomped.

  “You need a fucking breath mint,” Frank said as he kneed the creature’s groin.

  The impact would’ve left a normal man flat on his back and whimpering in agony. But the Skull hadn’t noticed. Frank delivered a powerful uppercut. Pain exploded in his fist, but this time the monster had the worst of it. The Skull’s teeth cracked together, and it chomped off part of its tongue. Blood dribbled from the corner of its mouth. The Skull wailed in a mixture of anger and frustration.

  Frank pressed his advantage, shoving the Skull away. It fell hard onto the spikes lining its spine. Several cracked under its own weight. Frank dodged past the creature. He rushed toward the office’s door, scooping up his dropped pistol on the way.

  The office led to a small room used as a makeshift lobby for the training school. Peeling posters hung on the walls over worn leather couches and a water cooler. A large bookshelf had been shoved against the front door of the office. The suitcases piled in one corner spoke of someone’s desperate attempt to use the office as a redoubt against the Skulls. If this was the site of a last stand, then surely Leonard and his family had brought weapons here somewhere.

  Sure enough, Frank spotted a bat leaning against a chair nearby. It wasn’t the best weapon against bone-covered people-eaters, but it would have to do. He sprinted for it as the Skull appeared in the doorway again, its crimson eyes scanning the room for its escaped prey. It let out a shaking cry that reverberated in Frank’s bones. Frank scooped up the bat as the Skull leapt over a couch. He cocked the bat back and swung with wild abandon. The bat slammed against the Skull’s face with a sickening crack. Its body spun with the impact, and it crumpled to the floor.

  Frank didn’t let down his guard. From his dealings with the Skulls, he’d learned the creatures fought against death with all the stubbornness of a wild stallion being ridden for the first time. The monster pushed itself to its feet. Blood seeped from the fissures in its skull and out of its mouth. One of its eyes had been ruined by the crushed bones on the side of its face, but its good eye locked on Frank. Its lips curled back to reveal crimson-stained teeth.

  Frank swung the bat again, aiming for the same spot. One solid blow would scramble the creature’s brain.

  But that blow never landed. The monster held up its clawed hand and grabbed the bat. With its superhuman strength, it ripped the weapon from Frank’s hand and squeezed until the wood snapped. It dropped the pieces at its feet.

  Frank dodged the swipes and blows of the Skull like a boxer. He tried to grab the handle of the busted bat. As he did, the Skull landed a hit on Frank’s side. Hot pain coursed through his ribs. He couldn’t tell whether the Skull had broken skin or just the bones underneath.

  He didn’t care. This bastard had to go down. The monster coiled for another attack. Frank raised the bat handle and thrust forward, using the splintered wood like a short sword. He thrust the bat through the creature’s soft eye socket, piercing the weak bone behind its orbital cavity.

  The monster’s limbs went still, and Frank planted a foot into its chest, knocking it backward. The Skull fell. Frank panted, his fists curled, ready to pounce on the creature in case it wanted to go for another round. But it didn’t move. Blood pooled from its crushed head and out of its burst eye, soaking into the carpet.

  Frank leaned on one of the couches to catch his breath. Constantly running and fighting these damn things was sucking the life out of him, literally and metaphorically. He wasn’t the spry twenty-five-year-old pilot he’d once been, weightlifting on the weekdays and playing soccer in three leagues on the weekend. He’d gotten old and, if he was honest, out of shape.

  Once he felt his heart settle, he looked around the room for anything he could salvage. His stomach gave a lurch of hunger, growling almost as loudly as the Skull had.

  He ga
zed longingly at the water cooler, but nothing sloshed inside it. Frank walked toward the office’s kitchenette, but what he saw made him stop and forget his hunger.

  A flash of hot-pink fabric, glittery and almost obscenely cheerful in the ruin of the lobby.

  “God, no,” Frank said.

  No one-liner, no humor could make this better. Instead of continuing to the kitchenette, he took several tentative steps toward the suitcases. He opened the nearest bag, a duffel containing bottles of water, and he muttered his thanks to Leonard. But before he drank, he picked up a smaller suitcase that he hadn’t noticed earlier.

  The smiling face of a cartoon pony decorated the pink-and-purple piece of luggage. There was another small suitcase beneath the first, this one covered in pictures of cupcakes. No, no, no, Frank thought, his mind reeling. He unzipped it, hoping to prove his darkest suspicions wrong. Several shirts and pairs of pants fell out, suitable for a young girl no older than eight or nine. The clothes in the second pink suitcase were no different. Frank set it down then rummaged through a generic black weekend suitcase. He found several blouses, along with a few pairs of women’s jeans.

  Frank took a wild guess these weren’t Leonard’s. That left only one question: Where were the owners of these suitcases?

  Slowly, he stood again, chewing his bottom lip in worry. His fingers tensed, curling and releasing as he walked toward the short hall that led to the kitchenette and two other offices.

  “Anyone else here?” he said in a whisper. He tried again, slightly louder. “Hello?”

  It felt like his shoes were growing heavier with each step. The kitchenette appeared on his right, and he peeked in. A two-burner stovetop, refrigerator, sink, and the distinct odor of rotting fruit greeted him. But nothing else. Nothing living.

  He moved on to the next room, which in his day had been an office. With the back of his hand, he nudged the door open. Its hinges creaked. The sound made him cringe as he squinted into the moonlit space. Another desk, this one an ornate wooden piece, sat in the middle of the room with two felt-covered chairs in front. A formidable leather chair waited behind it for an occupant that would never return. Bookshelves had been positioned over the windows, and a pile of blankets rested in another corner.