The Dying of the Light (Book 3): Beginning

by Jason Kristopher

  “Report,” he said.

  “Bearing two eight nine degrees, sir,” Sensa replied, acting as his spotter. “Wind at two knots from the east.”

  Gaines adjusted his sights. “Confirmed,” he said, wondering why the Driebach wasn’t attacking. “It’s just sitting there.” In the end, it didn’t matter. With some mental gymnastics and some quick calculations, he corrected his aim and took a deep breath. Everyone else held theirs. Most had never seen the colonel fire the weapon in action.

  The crack of the rifle was as loud as ever, and the recoil felt good as the butt of the weapon slammed into his shoulder. He looked back through the scope and saw the splash of dark red on the side of the rusted minivan where the Driebach had hidden.

  “Kill confirmed,” Sensa said, though there was no need.

  Even for a Driebach, a hit from a Barrett was going to do enough damage that it wasn’t getting back up. And this one he was positive he’d hit in the head.

  Just like the original.

  “Keep an eye out. There may be others.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  There was a big crash, and the first of the derelict buildings tumbled in on itself. The large bulldozer backed away, then began flattening out the rubble. They’d considered utilizing the remnants for reconstruction purposes, but in the end, they’d decided that the materials were long past their prime and were all but useless. Best to raze the buildings to the ground and start over, letting nature reclaim what it could and burying the rest.

  Gaines was glad to see that the equipment still worked. This would have been a helluva lot harder without those dozers, especially. There were other teams in other locations doing the same sort of work. Though he worried about the men, he knew they would do their job. The clearing of the area around the base was moving forward on schedule, and it provided a safe zone where nothing could approach the base unseen. It was a lot of work, but it was necessary for the permanent use of the base.

  “Sir, Lieutenant Hancock for you, sir.” Sensa handed the radio to Gaines, who covered the receiver.

  “Hancock—” he said, raising an eyebrow at his sergeant.

  “Golf team, sir. On the north end of the sweep.”

  He nodded thanks and brought the receiver up. “Go ahead.”

  “Sir, I think you need to see this.”

  Gaines closed his eyes and swore. He hated when people did that. “This ain’t a movie, son. Just tell me what you found.”

  “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. It looks like a base of some kind. There’s maps, a radio, and some sort of phone, sir.”

  “What do you mean ‘some sort of phone’?”

  “Well, there’s no cord or nothing, sir, and it’s pretty big…”

  Gaines struggled not to laugh. How else would you describe a satellite radio phone to someone who’d never seen one? Especially when all the “phones” they’d ever seen were small and designed only to work inside a massive bunker?

  “Don’t touch anything, Lieutenant. We’ll be right there. Secure the area and set up a perimeter. As of right now, you’re on guard duty. No one in or out until I arrive.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Gaines hefted his rifle, walked back around to the rear of the Humvee, and placed it in the battered case. He closed the rear of the vehicle and motioned for Sensa to take the shotgun seat.

  “What do you think it is, sir? Some sort of militia?”

  Gaines shook his head as he put the vehicle into motion. “I don’t think so. If it’s what I think it is and that phone still works, we may have hit the jackpot.”

  “I love it when a plan comes together,” Gaines said. When none of the people standing in the small bedroom of the dilapidated house seemed to get the reference, he sighed. “Really? No one? I’m getting too old for this shit.”

  The room was packed with supplies, maps, and other odds and ends. And it was just one of the rooms in the big house that was filled with similar equipment. He walked back into the living room and looked again at the items piled on the large sawhorse table sitting there.

  More odds and ends, but one thing stuck out: the satellite phone that Hancock had mentioned. It was useless in its current state, of course, with the batteries having run down and corroded years before. The more-or-less intact state of the house had prevented any damage from the elements. A small leather-bound journal sat open next to it. Found in a back bedroom in a drawer, it was all the proof they needed to know Gaines had been correct.

  Gaines had paged through the journal and stopped at an entry two-thirds of the way into the book. “From 4/15/10: MacMillan ordered another assault on the bunker. Sending Driebach and team over the mountain. Requested more troops, denied. Reverend suggests local conscripts.”

  “I don’t understand, sir,” Sensa said. “What does all this mean?”

  “This is where Beoshane holed up, Sergeant. This was his base of operations.”

  Even as young as she was, Sensa knew who Arthur Beoshane was, or rather, who he had been. “Whoa.”

  “Exactly. But this,” Gaines said, pointing at the final sentence. “This reverend… It can’t be who I think it is, can it? That’s not possible. Not possible!”

  When Sensa didn’t reply, he shook his head. “Never mind, Sergeant. Pack it all up and have it transpo’d to the bunker. They can analyze it all up there.”

  “Yes, sir,” the sergeant said.

  “Oh, and Sensa…”

  “Sir?”

  “See that this gets special handling,” he said, handing her the phone. “Have them take it to the tech guys right now. They may be able to get some data off of it.”

  Gaines walked outside and over to his command Humvee and motioned for his comms officer to join him. “Get me a secure line to Colonel Blake in the bunker. She’s gonna wanna know about this.”

  AEGIS Flight Seven Three

  C-130 Cargo Transport

  24,000 Feet Over Columbia, South Carolina

  Carter Musgrove stared out the cockpit window and tried to ignore the pounding coming from the locked metal door behind him. When he’d volunteered to fly the prion treatment to Bunker Ten, he’d expected the worst thing he would run into would be the weather.

  How wrong he was.

  He set the pistol down and toggled the radio once more. He didn’t have high hopes for the damned thing working any better this time. “AEGIS Flight Seven Three calling AEGIS Ten Actual. Come in, Ten.”

  Static on the line yet again.

  “Repeat, AEGIS Flight Seven Three calling AEGIS Ten Actual.” He swore in frustration. “Hell, anyone who can hear me, please respond. I am declaring an emergency.”

  Again, the pseudo-silence of static was the only reply he received. He picked up the pistol and examined it in the early-afternoon sunlight streaming through the window.

  “‘You’ll love South Carolina,’ they said,” he muttered to himself. “‘It’s warm, there’s even a beach nearby,’ they said. ‘All you have to do is make one little trip, maybe two, and you’ll save all those lives. You don’t even have to fly back.’ Buncha lyin’ sonsabitches…” There was yet another set of slams and bangs at the door as he spoke, and he yelled over his shoulder, “Oh, shut the hell up, Erik! Don’t make me come back there!”

  His eyes fell on the gun once more, and he saw what so many had seen before in this new world they all lived in. How easy it would be to just sort of… let go. No more cares, no more responsibilities, no more pain and anguish. He was so caught up in the moment, he almost didn’t hear the reply when it finally came.

  “. . . AEGIS Ten Actual, come in AEGIS Seven Three.”

  “God in heaven,” Musgrove said and put the gun down once more. “AEGIS Flight Seven Three here. Good to finally hear you, AEGIS Ten.”

  “Sorry about that, 7-3. We’ve been having some trouble with our equipment since the hurricane a few months back. We thought we had it nailed down, but obviously not. Did you say emergency?”

  “Yeah, I’ve got so
mething of a problem up here.”

  “Roger that, 7-3. I can hear a banging in the background. What’s going on?”

  “That’s the problem. I’m all that’s left, you see.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “My copilot and the loadmaster, they’re both dead. Well, not quite, if you catch my drift.” He sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face. “Sorry, Ten, it’s been a long flight. I’ve got walkers on board.”

  “Say again, walkers are on your plane?”

  “Confirmed. Somehow one got aboard during loading and attacked our loadmaster mid-flight. When my copilot went to take a leak, he got ambushed, I guess. I didn’t find out until he tried to get back into the cockpit. I just barely got the hatch closed again.”

  “That… That’s one hell of an emergency, 7-3.”

  “No kidding.”

  “Can you make it to Georgetown as planned?”

  “I don’t see why not. We’re fine on fuel, there’s no damage to the plane.”

  “Are you safe, though?”

  “Well, sir, if they could’ve gotten to me, they would’ve by now. They’re not getting through that door.”

  “You just get those supplies here. We’ll take care of the walkers when you land.”

  “Yes, sir, roger that. I’m not sure how much good they’ll do, though. The medical technician was back there too.”

  “Shit.”

  “My thoughts exactly.”

  “Nothing we can do about it now. We’ll figure out something, even if it’s a damn phone call. For now, get your ass here and we’ll take care of the walkers when you land.”

  “Acknowledged, Ten. Flight 7-3 out.”

  Musgrove leaned his head back against the rest and let out a deep sigh. He still had a little ways to go, but at least he would make it there in one piece. He glanced down at the gun on the instrument panel and put it back in his holster.

  Georgetown Airport

  South Carolina

  Musgrove brought the plane to a rolling stop just shy of the runway’s end and shut it down. A hundred feet more and the soft sand would keep the plane from flying for a long time. He’d made better landings, but for the moment, he couldn’t care less. The big propellers slowed and finally stopped, and Musgrove saw Bunker Ten’s armored vehicles as he stood and stretched. He noted the presence of at least one Stryker and two deuce-and-a-halfs. Bunker Ten’s governor, Marcus Simms, was taking no chances with the treatment.

  “AEGIS 7-3, this is Zulu Six. We are aware of your situation. Please confirm your status.”

  “Zulu Six, I am alive and unharmed. The walkers have not breached the cockpit.”

  “Confirmed, 7-3. Request you open the cargo bay and take cover while we deal with your guests.”

  “Roger that, Zulu Six. Be advised, the supplies do not react well to bullets.”

  There was a short, sharp laugh from the ground force commander. “Copy that, 7-3. We’ll do our best.”

  “Seven Three out,” Musgrove said, then reached over and pulled the lever to open the cargo bay. He crouched down between the back of the pilot seat and a bank of electronics. For the first time in his life, he was grateful that he was short and skinny.

  The whine of the lowering ramp resounded throughout the plane, and he could hear the moans of the walkers as they moved toward the noise. There were several loud cracks and one loud thump on the cockpit door. He glanced up and saw a big dent in the metal and was grateful for his lack of stature all over again.

  “Clear!” Musgrove heard someone shout. There came the tramp of boots on the metal decking, followed by a surprised exclamation. “Shit!”

  There was a rapid series of knocks on the cockpit door, and a voice spoke. “It’s all clear, sir. The walkers are down.”

  Musgrove stood up, straightened his flight suit somewhat, and unlocked the door. Swinging it outward, he glanced around, but there were no walkers, just two rather large soldiers.

  “Sorry about that, sir,” one of them said as he gestured toward the dent in the door. It looked far worse from this side, Musgrove had to admit. “Good thing it’s reinforced.”

  Musgrove nodded. “I was taking cover anyway, but yeah. Did you get them all?”

  “Yes, sir. All five are dead. Again.”

  Musgrove frowned. “Five?” he asked as they walked toward the rear of the plane. He spotted the one who’d been pounding on the cockpit and recognized the torn and bloody face that had been his copilot, Frank. Nearby was the flight engineer, whom he had only known as Tango. He turned to the soldier. “Where are the others?”

  “Back here, sir,” the man said and led Musgrove to the rear of the plane. An older man with colonel’s birds and the name POPE stitched on his uniform was there, inspecting a broken crate. As they approached, the man looked up.

  “Welcome to South Carolina, Lieutenant,” the colonel. “Quite the mess you’ve got here.”

  “Lieutenant?” Musgrove said, confused. Then he realized the problem. “Sorry, Colonel, I’m not a lieutenant. I’m a civilian. This was the only flight suit we had that would fit. And you’re right. But where are the other walkers?”

  The colonel grunted. “Well, fine job anyway. The others are over here.” He motioned to three fresh corpses that had fallen against one of the bulkheads. “Doc?”

  One of other soldiers moved forward and spoke. “Judging from the wounds on the bodies and the blood spatter here, here, and there,” he said, pointing to two walkers in civilian clothing, “my guess is that these two hid in the crate and then attacked the technician sent to administer the treatment.” He pointed again, this time to the body of a young man in AEGIS garb. “He or they took out the loadmaster, who turned your copilot.”

  “Zombies don’t hide,” Musgrove said. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “I don’t think they were zombies when they got on the plane,” the colonel said. “What was your name again?”

  “Musgrove, sir. Carter Musgrove.”

  “I think they stowed away, Mr. Musgrove. Take a look at this.” He squatted down and grabbed the left arm of one of the bodies, turning it palm-up. A small brand was visible on the inside wrist: a cross with what appeared to be a rising sun behind it.

  “I don’t understand,” Musgrove said.

  “Did you ever hear of the First Church of the Divine Judgment, Musgrove?”

  “You mean those whackadoodles who blew up the CDC before Z-Day?”

  The other men looked at each other, then back at Musgrove. “Whackadoodle?”

  Musgrove chuckled. “Sorry, just something I picked up from my grandma. She used to say it all the time.”

  The colonel smiled. “I had a granny like that. Anyway, these are those same nutjobs. We believe they’re still active, and this is their mark. We’ve been keeping quiet about this so far. No one wants a panic, after all. But Bunker Seven sent guards with all the ground shipments to prevent sabotage.” He sighed and dropped the arm, standing straight once more. “We never expected any trouble on the flights, though. Do you know how they got aboard?”

  Musgrove shook his head. “I can’t say. I was running pre-flight checks while they were loading… Of course, that’s how. We had volunteers helping to load the plane. One or more of them must’ve been from this group and smuggled these two on board. But if they weren’t zombies, why? Surely they wouldn’t have tried to take the plane from us unarmed. Did you find any weapons?”

  “None whatsoever. But that doesn’t matter. We think they were the weapons.”

  “How so?”

  It was Doc’s turn to squat, pulling up the sleeve on the arm of the other dead man to expose a festering, untreated wound. “It’s a bite. The other one has the same thing. We also found used syringes with what look like blood in them. Probably infected, but we’re testing it just to be sure.” He stood and shook his head. “I think they were deliberately infected and then put on board to do exactly what they did.”

  Musgrove felt
sick. “But that’s—”

  “Horrible?” the colonel asked. “Monstrous? Evil? All those things apply to this church and its followers. I wouldn’t be surprised if we found out these two were volunteers.” He spat to one side. “Zombie suicide bombers. What the fuck next?”

  There was a loud beeping as one of the deuce-and-a-half trucks backed up near the end of the ramp. The colonel nodded to his men, who began loading the crates containing the precious prion treatments into the truck. The colonel pulled the still-stunned pilot off to the side.

  “Buck up, son,” he said to Musgrove, who just watched the loading. “You’ll love South Carolina.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  AEGIS Flight Seven Two

  Airbus 300 Cargo Transport

  Over Northeast Utah

  “Roger that, AEGIS Three. Flight Seven Two out.” Sam looked over at his copilot as he pulled his pistol and set the autopilot. The copilot had his pistol ready as well and looked back at him. “You ready for this, Christian?”

  “As I’ll ever be. I wish we could get Driscoll to answer.”

  “Me too.” Both men stood, and Christian covered the entrance as Sam prepared to open the door.

  “I don’t hear anything,” Sam said as he pressed his ear to the door.

  “Maybe that’s a good thing,” Christian replied in a whisper.

  “One… two… three!” Sam threw open the door and stepped back as the door clanged backward.

  The Airbus 300 cargo variant had a simple interior. Having belonged to FedEx before Z-Day, most of the interior room was for cargo, with straps and netting hanging down. There was also a double row of seats on the right side of the plane opposite the two loading doors. One big door was for cargo, the other for personnel. Both were just behind the cockpit on the left side of the plane.