“Straight north, bit more than a quarter of a mile—cell phone tower. Go. Sea Hawk is lifting off now.”
Hansen hopped from the hood of the DPV to the other side of the ditch. Olsen eyed the sun, figured out rough north, and pointed. “Let’s haul ass, Marine.”
On foot, the rough ground was even worse. They were able to jog only intermittently, stopping to navigate trickier areas. A sprained or broken ankle would be a death sentence at this point with what was bearing down on them.
After what felt like an eternity—but was really only a minute or two later—the top of the cell phone tower loomed in the distance. The two Marines shifted direction a bit to head directly that way. A couple of hundred yards out, they hit a graveled road, and they were able to increase to a near-sprint.
A sagging chain-link fence surrounded the tower. Olsen found a loose spot and held the fencing aside. He followed Hansen inside and cringed at the ratty appearance of the structure. Streaks of rust ran down the sides of the tower, and in some spots, tendrils of what looked like peeling paint hung limply in the still air. Bundles of cables hung slack down the center—power or data, he guessed. Whatever secured them to the side must have let loose, over the years.
“Thing looks like a freaking death trap, O.”
“It’s been sitting here rusting for almost ten years, no kidding it’s going to look like shit. Hurry up and get up and out of the way,” Olsen snapped. Ammunition or not, he was starting to regret telling Hansen to leave the 240 behind. The swarm itself was out of sight, but the vague sense of thunder in his legs and a blooming cloud of dust on the horizon told him they were getting closer.
Hansen’s answering shriek was so high and girlish that he thought his friend was screwing with him at first. Olsen snapped his head around, ready to lay out a verbal assault, but what he saw stopped him cold.
Hansen had a hand on the ladder, as though he’d begun the climb, but the hanging threads of what he’d taken for peeling paint no longer hung so loosely. As Olsen watched, several strands whipped around his friend’s hand and wrist, binding it fast to the rung. The strands rippled, and Hansen’s glove fell apart right before his eyes. Blood spurted as they reached flesh, and the shriek turned into a pathetic mewl of agony.
Olsen seized his friend by the shoulders and tried to pull him away, but all his straining accomplished was to further tear Hansen’s hand open.
The other man slapped at the writhing tinsel binding his wrist. “Shit! Shit! Cut it off! Cut it off, John!”
His hand scrabbled at his knife, but he was too late. Something shifted in the shadows underneath the tower, and he realized with dawning horror that what they’d taken for power or data cables was something far worse.
Two long, gray cables as thick as Olsen’s wrist pushed their way out of the bundle of wiring. He hated himself for it, but he stumbled backward as one of the cables seized his friend around the ankles. Hansen screamed again, supported by his ankles and wrist. His scream cut off as the second metallic tentacle—because that’s what it was, after all, wasn’t it?—whipped around and plunged into his open mouth. Erik let out a gurgling, desperate croak, whipped around in a final moment of desperation, then fell still as something inside of his chest gave way with a crack.
Olsen didn’t see what happened next. He turned and ran, as fast as his feet could carry him.
Chapter 31
April 3, 2026
Lockheed Skunkworks
Z-Day + 3,089
“Icarus, this is Olsen. Hansen is dead, sir. There was—God.” The man on the other end of the radio sobbed over the open channel. Pete looked at McFarlane and raised an eyebrow. The master sergeant shrugged and spread his hands in confusion.
“Take it easy, Private. What happened?”
The channel was silent for a moment. When Olsen came back on, his voice was much more composed, though he was still breathing fast. Running, Pete guessed. “We were about to climb the tower to await evac, Major, but there was something, I don’t know, not alive, hanging on the tower, sir. Like a robot octopus, maybe. It grabbed Erik and killed him.”
Pete turned to look north, though there was little chance that he could make out the tower the Olsen referred to. “All right, Private. Do you see any other high ground for evac?”
“Nothing, sir. It’s flatter than a pancake out here.”
“Stand by.”
Pete turned to McFarlane. “Ideas, Top?” It still felt weird using the appellation with anyone other than Larry, but he’d grown used to it.
“Pranks aside, he’s a good Marine, Major. I’m inclined to believe him.”
“Oh, I don’t hold an issue with weird shit. We’ve been seeing weird shit for almost a decade now. I don’t want to leave one of my men hanging, but the Sea Hawks are still a few minutes out.” He considered for a moment, then changed channels. “Brumley, what’s your status?”
“Almost back to the area of operations, Major. Getting ready to set up in high orbit.”
“Get with the Lucas and get coordinates. I’ve got a man on foot out here and you’re the fastest ride in the neighborhood.”
“Roger that, Major. I’ll bring your lost sheep home.”
“Copy. Advise the Sea Hawks to continue on to us, then. Engineers are working on getting the first packages ready.”
As soon as he concluded his statement, the roof of the warehouse vibrated. Oh, hell, what now. Earthquake?
The roof on the west side of the warehouse lacked vents or any other typical indicators of a modern building. The helicopter pilots had taken it for a lucky break and used it to land, but as Pete watched, the source of the vibration revealed itself as a section of the roof sank in and began to split. Their gear, thankfully, was nowhere near, so nothing important was at risk of falling in, but dirt and various debris that had collected on the roof over the years trickled in as the opening widened. There’d been enough of it to obscure the seams, even when the helicopters touched down and blew it around.
Pete gave McFarlane a quizzical look, and the two of them eased over to the edge and looked down. Trash littered the warehouse floor, now, but a beaming Seabee waved a hand in greeting. “Found a backup generator. Once we got the lights on, we figured out the roof opened up. Think they used it for vertical launching?”
Pete bit back his retort and rolled his eyes at McFarlane. The master sergeant shook his head and laughed. “Engineers, Major, what are you going to do?”
He nodded in resignation, then turned back to the men below. “Get the first set of containers ready, the choppers are inbound!”
April 3, 2026
North of Palmdale, California
Z-Day + 3,089
With his heart pounding in his chest, Olsen pulled himself off the ladder and flopped on his back. He’d found a quartet of above-ground fuel tanks on the north side of the empty area. It was way too close to the built-up area north of the warehouse for his blood, but it was the first thing he’d encountered that was tall enough to offer a measure of safety. The fence around the tanks still stood, and though the outward-bent razor wire on top was rusty, it still looked sharp as hell. He’d gotten lucky. At some point, someone had cut the chain securing the gate, leaving it wide open. Olsen had hauled it shut and snaked the chain around and through before tying the ends together with a length of 550 cord. It wouldn’t stop a wave assault, but it would buy him a few more minutes of life.
He fingered his holstered M45A1. If it came to it, he’d eat a bullet before he’d become one of those things—or worse, if something like what got Erik came at him.
Olsen let out a shaky breath. “Keep it together, keep it together.” He rubbed his palms in his eyes and ignored the fact that his gloves came away wet with tears. After a moment, he felt composed enough to put some more thought into his current predicament.
If they don’t see or hear you, they won’t come for you.
He nodded to himself and moved to the center of the tank. From here, he’d be diff
icult to spot from the ground, but that wasn’t the main problem. He dropped prone and eyed the horizon. There was a vague cloud of dust to the southwest—maybe something else had distracted them. He reached for his radio, considered the noise, and lowered the volume in his earpiece a bit. It was quiet enough that he didn’t need it maxed out, anyway.
The fence rattled. “Shit,” he hissed between his teeth. Keeping his belly low to the flat surface of the fuel tank, he crawled in the direction of the noise. He peeked over the edge as he got closer, but as soon as he did, something rushed past his ear. Olsen jumped back in surprise. Wood clattered on top of the tank. He rolled away from the edge and took a look at the weapon that had narrowly missed him.
The stained and cracked shaft of wood had started life as the handle for a rake or shovel, but something had cut it off short and lashed an angled tube of gray-flecked bone to the end of it. The major and some of the other Marines from Camp Perry had mentioned the zulus using thrown weapons in the last few encounters.
Last time I’ll doubt that rumor mill.
The rush of wind came again, and another spear clattered on top of the tank, sending splinters of bone flying. He recoiled. “Shit!” One scratch and he was toast.
He eased to the edge of the tank again. Olsen took a quick peek, then pulled his head back to consider what he’d seen. A small group, maybe three or four zulus, at the fence. They didn’t seem to have any spears left. He steeled himself and stuck his head back out.
Three-and-a-half pairs of blank gray eyes stared at him through the fence. The second zulu from the left had lost a good chunk of its face to injury at some point—the ravaged section was a rippled scab of leprous gray flesh. “Shot your wad, didn’t you, assholes?” Olsen said, under his breath.
As though they’d heard him, the zulus stepped forward and took hold of the chain link fence. They begin an awkward climb toward the top—it wasn’t as fast as he might have managed himself, but it was a damn sight faster than they should have been.
If they could manage the fence, then the ladders on the side of the tank would be child’s play. And he couldn’t cover both of them at the same time, not by himself. He cringed to do it, but he pulled out his pistol and steadied his aim. He took down One-eye with his first shot, and even though the unsuppressed noise might as well be a ringing dinner bell, it felt good to fight back instead of running.
By the time he pulled back to the center of the tank and exchanged the magazine in his pistol for a full one, he’d taken down the four zulus at the fence and roused who knew how many more. The vague impression of movement teased his eyes toward the edge of the built-up area across the road. The area was too dry to develop major growths of weeds, which made him all the more confident that he was seeing what looked like every damn zulu on this side of town.
“Should have waited them out, idiot,” he hissed to himself. Counting the one he’d loaded, he had three magazines left for the pistol, with a total of twenty-one rounds, for all the good they’d do him. Cautious streams of zulus emerged from between the buildings now, and more than a few of them carried spears.
Right about the time eating a bullet was starting to look like the sensible option, his radio buzzed.
“Hunker down, Marine, I’m making an attack run, then I’m looping back around to pick you up.”
Olsen held back his whoop and laid on his stomach. The droning buzz of the Little Bird rose from the west, and the growing crowd of zulus on the street hesitated, as though trying to discern where this new source of noise was coming from. Before they could so much as look up, the little gunship whizzed overhead, a bare twenty feet off the deck. The miniguns under each wing buzzed, and a storm of lead reaped the path in front of the helicopter. Even the hits that weren’t immediately zulu-fatal were often crippling, shattering bones or blowing desert-desiccated bodies apart. He did cheer, then, when the noise no longer mattered. The helicopter had their attention now, and they turned as one as she pulled up and away. A few spears arced out in the direction the chopper had taken, but they plunged harmlessly to the ground.
Remembering his precarious position, Olsen flattened himself again, willing the zulus to have forgotten him.
His radio crackled again. “Coming up on your six, get ready.” He tried to get a glance over his shoulder, but he couldn’t see the helicopter. Brumley must have looped around wide before coming back—all the better to evade pursuit. The Little Bird was so damn fast that it almost literally made the zulus’ heads spin as they tried to keep up with it. The sight would have been entertaining if there hadn’t been so many of the damn things.
The engine noise swelled into a roar behind him. Olsen pushed himself up into a crouch. Speed was the order of the moment. The mounded heaps of writhing zulus from the first attack run were but a temporary obstacle as his head popped up into view and the engine noise from the south drew their attention. The remaining horde burst into motion at the mere sight of him, hurtling toward the fence.
A rooster-tail of sand and grit followed the Little Bird as Brumley pulled up. The back skids scraped across the fuel tank—she hadn’t killed the helicopter’s forward momentum completely, but she’d dropped it enough for Olsen to be able to grab on.
In a crouch, ever-aware of the blades whirring overhead, he got a foot on one of the skids, almost stumbled, then grabbed hold of a strap on one of the inside seats and hauled himself in. Save for the forward canopy, the entire cabin was open and exposed but it felt infinitely safer than his previous position. He wiggled his arms into the straps and shouted, “Go, go, go!” even as he tried to get them secured.
The spears that missed thumped harmlessly into the lower fuselage. If Olsen hadn’t known better he might have assumed that the noise was debris kicked up by the downdraft from the rotors. But Brumley’s sudden shriek of agony and the spray of blood across his face snapped his focus forward. The moment of safety he’d perceived in the belly of the helicopter had been a sham, after all.
The spear pierced Brumley from left to right. The zulu-thrown weapon had hit with such force that it had driven the sharpened bit of bone all the way through her abdomen and out the opposite side. As the helicopter pitched wildly, Olsen’s focus turned to two things in particular—the line of blood flowing down the shaft and the advancing gray veins on the back of Brumley’s hands.
She screamed again, but this time it was pure east Texas rage, and she wrestled the Little Bird back into line. Only semi-secured by his straps, there was little that Olsen could do but watch the final moments of his life.
All in all, it was a rather surreal experience.
When she’d first been injured, Brumley had pulled up out of pure instinct. The chopper was responsive enough that it had gone nearly vertical, and as she cringed from the pain, the chopper pitched from side to side. Olsen scrabbled for his pistol, but he’d lost it in the sudden wild ride. At once, he realized that even if he did shoot Brumley before she turned, he knew zip and squat about flying a helicopter. He could jump, but that would be delaying the inevitable even if he survived.
She coughed, spat blood on the inside of the canopy, and shouted over the rush of wind. “After all this—going out like Wash. Sorry, Marine.”
Brumley shoved the stick forward and the engine of the Little Bird roared. The helicopter went vertical again, except this time the nose pointed straight down and aimed right at the middle two fuel tanks. Olsen tugged at the straps for a moment and considered jumping. At once, he felt a deep sense of peaceful resignation. Better than eating a bullet. He took note of the swelling crowd of zulus around the fuel tanks, and resignation turned into something not unlike satisfaction. He and the helicopter pilot wouldn’t be making the trip to Valhalla alone.
Brumley let out a renewed cry, and though it wasn’t agony, it was something just as primal. The miniguns burst into life, and tracers led the way. The storm of bullets slammed into the zulus who, true to form, focused only on the source of noise above them, dog-piling on top
of one another and reaching out for the thing that was coming for them.
Right before the nose of the Little Bird could contact the fuel tanks, the whirling blades slashed into them. Steel parted, sparks flew, and the long pent-up fumes of stored aviation fuel burst into a sudden, furious light.
As gravity and momentum brought them toward the newborn wall of flame, Olsen cringed, despite himself. This is going to be loud as—
April 3, 2026
Lockheed Skunkworks
Z-Day + 3,089
The Marines on the north side were the only ones that saw the flash, but they all heard the rapid quadruple thump of the accompanying explosion. The warehouse vibrated under their feet.
“Chopper down?” Del Arroz groaned. The rising mushroom cloud had a universal effect on the men around Charlie. Their shoulders sagged in disbelief and a few of them cursed. As the pillar of smoke and fire ascend into the sky, he heard other, less impressive explosions like the rattle of firecrackers. “Ammo cooking off,” Del Arroz said. “Hell.”
Pete pressed a hand to his ear and snapped into the radio. “I need a sit-rep, Lucas. We’ve got one hell of an explosion to the north and I’m hearing what sound like secondaries.” He listened for a moment, and then his own shoulders sagged. “Copy.” Pete turned to the assembled Marines. “Drones have confirmed that the Little Bird went down and hit a tank farm. There must have been enough fumes in there to light off. Brumley and Olsen are—” Pete trailed off into silence. It went without saying.
“What’s the plan, Major?”
Pete stared off toward the north. “Choppers will be here shortly. The first load goes out, we hunker down. If the DPV didn’t have every zulu in the area riled up, that’s going to do the trick right there.” He keyed his radio so that those not in earshot could hear him just as well. “Stay frosty and keep your eyes open, Marines.”
Charlie didn’t have a radio, but from the way that Pete and the others suddenly stiffened, he knew they’d just gotten more bad news. They pivoted and looked to the west, toward where Guglik had gone.
A Place Called Hope (Z-Day Book 2) Page 33
