by Franks, JK
There was a collective gasp from the group.
He decided to continue, “Second thing,” he paused briefly to take in the room, “Scott is going with me.”
The noise level in the room increased significantly. Questions came from every direction.
“Tahir, can you put it up?” He nodded and used the remote to power on the flat screen TV.
On it was a grainy image of a very pregnant Gia being escorted at gunpoint by two NSF soldiers. Scott leaned up, then stood and silently began to approach the screen.
“Tahir retrieved this from the Bataan’s comms computers. I have no idea how. Ok, expand the view out.” Archangel’s battered face filled the remainder of the screen. “My new assignment is to report to this man. He is where Gia is. I don’t know if I can trust him, in fact, I probably can’t, but that is where we are going. A protectorate camp outside of Memphis.”
“Memphis?” Bobby said. “That was where the Messengers had a big battle and lost.”
Skybox nodded, “Tahir has done some digging, it appears to be a significant operation. The base is called Thunder Ridge. No guarantee that Gia will still be there, but that is where the answers are.”
“How will you get close enough to find out?” Bobby asked. “I mean, you’re supposed to be there, but Scott isn’t.”
“Not just Scott, I’m taking Tommy as well. But…well, I’m still working on that part.”
“I’ll go,” Bartos said eagerly. “I’m in,” echoed Todd, then Bobby.
DeVonte started to add his name, but Angel cut him off, “Uh-uh, oh, hell no. Don’t even think about it, Cowboy.”
“Sorry, guys, this is going to be a lean, fast strike team. I have requested a couple of the Navy Spec Ops guys. Two Rangers from the lost battalion are still with us as well to help plant a locator beacon, but that’s it. Bartos, I’d love to have your level of crazy, but you are too banged up.” He thought for a moment before adding, “I wouldn’t say no to Solo, though.”
Bartos shrugged then winced at the pain in his shoulder. “Up to him. You and Scott both know most of the commands, and he loved the last time, so…yeah, sounds smart to me.”
Chapter Seventy-Six
Near Spartanburg, South Carolina
Commander Kitma looked at the valley ahead in disbelief. Losing his long-time friend and ally the previous week in the oil facility attack in Louisiana had been devastating. Now this, though. Infected were pouring southward out of the crowded northern states and all of the internment camps. The Appalachian Mountains were a natural obstacle causing many of them to head south in search of food and more hosts to infect. Here in South Carolina, the natural terrain was funneling all of them more eastward toward the coast. His assignment was to prevent them from going farther. Sadly, he already knew he would fail on this assignment, and it would likely be his last. Once they got as far south as Atlanta, the mountains faded, and the way westward would open up. Then, the remainder of the country would get to see the full horror of this disease.
He looked at his second, “Major, go ahead, blow the bridges.” The man nodded and began barking orders into his radio. Minutes later, in the far distance, he could hear detonations as bridges all over the region were demolished. Other units would be doing the same thing. A squadron of fighter-bombers from MCAS Beaufort was assisting with those too remote or in areas already overrun by infected. While not much of a deterrent like the mountains, it had been noticed that the infected preferred not crossing rivers. Taking out the bridges helped funnel them toward Kitma’s awaiting battalions.
This could well be the republic’s last stand. He knew America would survive or fall based on what happened here in the next few hours. No one knew why the infected tended to herd together, some primal instinct or something. Safety in numbers perhaps, but in either case, it was freakish to see up close. His briefing from P-command had told him to expect something akin to a B-movie classic zombie. This wasn’t at all what he was seeing.
The leading edge was less than a mile away. He and his people would all likely be infected by now as well, but if they could thin the numbers of the horde, it could still help. Through the Steiner binoculars, he watched them with morbid fascination. These had been people, teachers, neighbors, preachers maybe. Now they were like a pack of wild dogs chasing after prey. They were angry and wild. Most were naked or nearly so, it looked like the clothes had been torn from their bodies. Most were covered in cuts and blood and gore from past fights or feedings. What was most unnerving was how fast they moved, and the fact they were obviously communicating with one another. No, this wasn’t zombies, the infected were much, much worse.
A few seconds later, the sound reached his ears. A perpetual moaning combined with thousands and thousands of feet pounding the ground toward them. Then the stench, a wet-dog smell with something more that faintly reeked of rotting fish. He heard some of his men begin to gag. He just prayed they would maintain fire discipline. The US Army hadn’t fought a battle like this in a very long time. Firing on a charging force called for old-school tactics. The truth was, no one he knew had fought an enemy like this. “Pick a target, gentlemen, and fire at will.” The major passed along the order calmly, and up and down the line, weapons began to fire. The last remnants of the US Army began the laborious process of killing much of what remained of the country’s citizens.
The first wave of the horde fell, but that was barely a dent in total numbers. The infected saw the soldiers as hosts to be taken, an enemy to be consumed, and nothing would stand in the way of their insatiable bloodlust. Chambers clicked empty, and new clips were slammed home, but the horde used those few seconds to gain ground. They were now forced to crawl over the growing pile of dead bodies, but some were getting through and getting closer and closer to the soldiers. Kitma could do the math, they had more bodies to throw at them than his men had ammo to throw back. It was a losing proposition. “Blow the trenches!”
The major yelled, “Cover!”
The valley floor detonated with row after row of quarry explosives. They had spent much of the prior days drilling holes for the explosive mix and laying the Det Cord across the landscape. Each row was hundreds of explosions going back nearly a half of a mile. The blast radius of one had been mapped out to just overlap the edge of the blast in the next row. The infected went up in pieces, many nothing more than clouds of blood. Clouds that were now drifting back over his frontline troops.
“Major, give the order. Fall back.”
The line of troops, tanks, and equipment made a swift retreat, but not all, he noticed. Hundreds of his soldiers were now on their knees, vomiting or holding their heads. The order had been given in advance to fire on any of their fellow soldiers who became infected. Commander Kitma now waited to see how many would actually follow those instructions. Once they were established a few hundred yards farther back, a handful of shots rang out targeting their fallen brothers-in-arms. Then a few more, and soon after, the hundred or so infected troops left behind lay unmoving on the ground. Good, he thought sadly. That will be the hardest thing these men ever have to do.
He looked out over the valley at the tens of thousands of dead, but as he feared, just as many were coming out of the rapidly clearing smoke. “Artillery rounds, Major. M377 Flechettes.”
The 90mm airburst artillery shell was specifically an anti-personnel round. Each shell detonated above ground dispersing hundreds of smaller razor-sharp darts of metal in a fourteen-degree forward arc. The deadly “metal rain” had been outlawed as inhuman and hadn’t been used anywhere in recent times, but thankfully, a stockpile of the ammo had been located. As the orders were given, firing lanes for the M1-A1 tanks opened up. The shelling was unleashed with deadly efficiency. As each round detonated, he could see bodies fall for twenty yards, many literally sliced in half by the flechettes.
Still, they came. The day became a scene of fire, retreat and fire. They were bending, but so far hadn’t broken. His aide had moved them behind the front lin
e. The infected were enraged, and between breaks in the firing, some broke through. Ripping, tearing, biting, sometimes kicking and punching his soldiers into submission. The virus turned them into a sadistic, rabid version of a human. Those who fought back died, the ones who didn’t, were often maimed and left to become new host for the disease.
He shook his head at the waste of life. Seemingly, uncaring about his own. Then came the message he’d been dreading.
“Contact rear.”
They had been encircled. Infected were now on all sides, they were the cheese in the middle of the trap. Guns began clicking empty as ammo shortages became critical. He didn’t bother telling his men to affix bayonets, those who remained were already doing so in preparation for hand-to-hand. All tanks that were out of ammo were instructed to simply drive through the still advancing horde of the infected. The crunching sound of bone and bodies beneath the treads was something beyond horrific. Kitma finally found himself locked into the cabin of the tank he’d been riding in all day. Out of ammo and short on fuel, they pointed the beast at the thickest part of the infected. His drivers would handle this, no more of his orders were needed.
There was one other thing he could do, though. Maybe he could help someone else.
Chapter Seventy-Seven
Harris Springs, Mississippi
Scott found his brother in the comms room. The massive radio system now featured several laptops and computer monitors as well. A large map on the wall showed the US with much of the eastern half of the country filled in with snake-like tendrils of highlighted pink. He knew there were reports of the infected moving deeper south and west.
Bobby slipped the headphones down around his neck. “Hey, man.” He stood up and embraced Scott. “What’s up?”
“You know I have to go after her.”
Bobby nodded, “I uh…well, shit, yeah, I know, I hope you find her, man.”
Scott nodded absently. He knew he was mentally unfit for this mission, nor was he being much of a leader, but Fuck it. “Listen, Bobby, the ship is nearly ready. Todd’s handling the final set-up, help him out. He needs you for this. Losing Jack…” he trailed off. “Just help him, ok? He looked closer at the pink markings on the map. “Tahir says you may have a few weeks before you have to leave.”
Bobby nodded, “Yeah, heard that already. We’ll be ready.”
Scott leaned against the door, his vision blurring and coming into focus. He shook his head, “No, not that.”
Bobby put out a hand to support his brother, “You okay, man? You’re looking a bit shaky.”
Scott ignored the question. “My point, Bobby, is that we have room for thousands on this ship, and we are taking just a fraction.” He rubbed a hand across his forehead, fighting off a headache, willing his eyes to focus. “America needs to be saved. It may be up to us.”
His older brother nodded but looked confused. Scott continued wearily, “I want you to put out the word. Tell anyone on the Patriot Network that they are welcome to join us. Bring supplies, bring weapons, do what they can to get here. Once the US is safe, we’ll come back, and they can go home and start rebuilding. It’s their only real chance.”
Bobby followed Scott's gaze to the map, “Many…hell, probably most are already gone.”
“I know…I should have thought of it sooner, but I didn’t know if the old girl would actually ever move again. There will be survivors, even in the red states. Find them, Bobby.”
Scott’s older brother wrapped him in a bear hug. “I never knew you were such a great humanitarian. Thanks, man, this is awesome.”
“Don’t thank me yet, you have to keep ‘em in line. We know that they are an independent bunch.”
Bobby nodded, not letting go of his little brother. “Go get her…and get back here.”
Scott nodded and left the small room, tears beginning to well at the corners of his eyes.
He found Todd sitting in the dark in the cabin that had been Jack’s. “Hey, man.” He saw Todd’s head nod in acknowledgment. “You ok?”
“No.”
Scott sniffed back a runny nose and rubbed at his eyes. “Yeah…”
The two friends sat there in silence for a long time. Neither actually saying much, but words were not what was really important. Scott told him what Bobby was going to do. There could be a lot of new faces around in the next few weeks. The years of trying to keep the AG secret were over.
“Sounds good,” was all Todd said.
Eventually, Scott rose to leave. Todd reached out a hand to stop him. “I should be going with you, Scott, we’re…we are a team.”
Scott agreed they were, he had been at his best when supported by the man in front of him and Bartos, Solo and Jack. Things had changed, though. “This is my mission, Cap. Yours is to be ready to lead our people to a new home. My pregnant wife will want a nice bungalow on the beach…I promised her that.”
Todd nodded.
Angel was surprised to see Scott, she hugged him and gave a quick peck on the cheek. She pulled him over to the dining table where Kaylie, Jacob and Roosevelt were already sitting. As he sat down, Jacob surprised him by climbing from Kaylie’s lap into his. Feeling the boy’s head resting against his chest was the most comforting thing he had experienced in weeks.
“When you heading out, Uncle Scott?”
“Later today, Sky is getting the gear packed now.” He glanced from his niece to Angelique. Her eyes were watching him closely. “Angel, you may have some additional mouths to feed in the coming days.”
She nodded, “Bobby already filled me in. We’re going to get cabins ready just in case, and the guys are doubling our fresh water storage.” Her tone shifted abruptly from ship’s business to personal. “Scott, you sure you’re ready for this? Why not let Skybox and the soldiers go?”
He gave a small chuckle and shook his head, “No…I am very much not ready, but I have to. She and our baby…” his voice trailed off. He had no more tears to shed. It was time for action now. What had been building for days was a simmering rage. “We’ll be fine, Angel.”
Scott looked at Roosevelt who had remained oddly quiet. “Nothing from you, friend?” Scott said with a smile.
Roosevelt shook his head. “Nah…you don’t need no ramblins from an old man. You gonna do whas right, yes suh, you will. Mister Scott, you just one dem folks dat gotta make a difference in da world. You don’t even realize it, you thinks you doin stuff just for you or for these people here, but you ain’t. You got big things ahead ‘o you, big decisions. But I do have one favor to ask…I mean, if’n you was wantin and all. If you happen to see an of dem lemony candies while you out there…” The old man winked, and everyone laughed.
He felt Jacob squirm and climb higher up on his chest. He embraced the sweet boy whose tiny head now leaned nearer to his and was amazed at what came next from the child who no one here had ever heard speak.
“Please don’t go.”
Chapter Seventy-Eight
Central Georgia
Kitma’s voice was strained, the connection full of interference. “Sentinel, alert de odders. De infected have regrouped, we have been overrun. Dey are heading…south.”
“Please repeat that.”
“Steven…dey are coming your way, take da boi and leave, you aren’t safe anymo, this is it, my freend. Load up yo damn truck and go. May God look after you.”
Steven could hear the sounds of gunfire and what sounded like distant screams coming over the radio. In the cabin deep in the woods of central Georgia, Steven Porter said goodbye to his closest friend. A man he’d met in person just weeks after the CME. A man he now knew was more than what he seemed. A man much like his friend, Gerald, who had pushed him to become somehow more as well. So many more things he wanted to ask Kitma, but the signal faded and then was gone.
He wiped his eyes dry with his good hand and scanned the large basement. JD was watching him from the leather sofa. “You heard?” The boy nodded.
Steve rose up from the
chair and walked over leaning heavily on the racks of food. “You know the plan, two thirty-day load-outs for each of us, food, weapons, and tools. We can use the Rhino to get supplies down to the truck. We will take the computers and the library.” JD looked at him surprised, his eyes full of questions.
“This looks like it, dude, the fall of America.” He walked over to Gerald’s wall-size map of North America. Push pins and sticky notes covered much of the US region. He pointed to a spot, “Kitma was somewhere up here, near Spartanburg, South Carolina. We are here,” he pointed a finger at an area just below Warner Robbins, Georgia, the two fingers all that was left on the mangled hand.
“That’s less than…hmmm, let’s call it 225 miles. Assuming the infected move at an average pace, that puts them here in...”
“Eleven days,” JD said.
Steve nodded, looking closely at JD. The boy was quickly becoming a man. The black tactical vest, pistol and knives now just a normal part of their attire. Neither of them was the same person anymore. Two years ago, when they had stumbled up the steps to this cabin, both were lost, and he, in particular, was a broken man, having struggled to travel home after the blackout only to find his wife gone and his son dead. He’d met JD in the company of another man. A fascinating individual named Gerald Leighton. Gerald didn’t survive, but in his passing, managed to give them the means to do so. They had grown since then, finding purpose in survival, then in helping others do the same. Eventually, he became Sentinel, a key player in the growing Patriot Network.
