A Place Called Hope (Z-Day Book 2)

by Daniel Humphreys

  “We’re abandoning ship, Franklin. She’s dead in the water. Hold one.” She patted her pockets down and found where she’d tucked the folded map. “We’re bugging out to Anacapa Island. It’s twenty miles south-southwest from here, Lieutenant.”

  “Understood, Captain. Orders?”

  “Hold here until you burn through your ammo. Head to the island for a recon. You can drop the cargo there. It should have a small population if any, but give it a quick sweep from the air to see if there are any infected. After that, we’re going to need you. Major Matthews and the Marines are stuck in it too deep for you to do any good, even if we had the deck space to refuel you. Head back to the ship and assist in evacuation, we should have enough people off the ship by then to fit you in for fuel.”

  “Provide support, recon the island and assess conditions, return to assist in evacuation—aye, Captain. Franklin out.”

  Wilhite switched channels on the radio. “Javier, how are we looking back there?”

  It took him a moment to come back, and there was evident worry in his voice. “I’m trying to juggle supplies, Captain, but things aren’t looking so good. We’re going to be tight on space.”

  “I’ve got the choppers coming back, we’ll be able to get a good chunk of our people off that way,” she replied. “I hate to say it, but food and water are the primary concern. Worst case scenario, we’ll clear the island hand to hand.” It’s not that big, she reasoned. How many infected could be there?

  “We could get lucky and it’ll be empty. But understood, Cap.”

  “Lord knows we’re due for some good luck,” she replied. “How much time?”

  “Twenty, thirty minutes tops.”

  She stared at the closed hatch and considered what she’d seen off the bow before she stepped inside. We’re going to be cutting it close.

  Chapter 36

  April 3, 2026

  Lockheed Skunkworks

  Z-Day + 3,089

  This is cutting it too damn close.

  Pete was on the edge of the roof now, firing over and down with the rest of his men. There was no grace, no accuracy to it. There was no need. Zulu was at the wall; Hannibal was at the gates.

  He’d started with eight men—Ross and Foraker stepping in to replace the Hansen brothers—and he’d lost two more to the damned spears, Corporal Prestridge and PFC Warner. He hadn’t known any of the men long enough to get their measure, other than the SEALs, but he’d put them down just the same. He owed them for getting them into this cluster.

  From McFarlane’s cry over the radio, the fences on the opposite side of the warehouse had failed right before the ones on this side. The human wave had slammed into the wall and spread a bit, but for the most part, zulu was coming on as hard and dumb as usual.

  Which simplified things, to be sure, but they didn’t have the bodies or the bullets to keep at this for long. The crush at the base of the wall was tight enough to retard further spear attacks, but all the while the pile of undead flesh grew.

  “Ferris, status report.”

  “Still waiting on the batteries to charge, Major. Cargo is secure and we’re all on board, but lift off is going to be slow without the engines.”

  For a moment Pete considered telling him to cut the containers loose so they could fall back, but he couldn’t bring himself to give the order. They’d paid much too high a price to come out of this with just two aircraft to show for it. Two is one, one is none, his pack rat heart chimed in, and he hated himself for it. Given the circumstances, no one at command would judge him if he cut and run now—but this should work. Would work. Which is a great excuse and all, so long as that order doesn’t get even more of your men killed, Marine. “We’re running out of time here.” He ripped off a magazine, eyed the horde below, and pulled back. “What’s your rate of ascent without the engines?”

  “Not sure, but slow. We’re a bit over positive buoyancy, now. With your men on board, it’s going to cut it even closer. We need those engines to gain altitude.”

  Pete cursed under his breath and reloaded. “Understood. Like the wizard said, nothing is ever easy. We’ve got a way to break contact, but I don’t know how much time it’ll buy.”

  “I’m givin’ it all she’s got, Major,” Ferris said, and Pete grinned.

  “Copy.”

  He stepped forward and picked his shots this time around. They’d burned through the ammo on the south belt-fed, and from the slow, measured bursts Sergeant Harr taking with the north gun, that one wasn’t long for this world. They still had plenty of 40mm grenades for the M32s, but at this short of a range, it would be pointless. The dumb things wouldn’t even detonate. He put a double-tap into the skull of a zulu and idly wondered what the chances were that frags would sympathy detonate the line of claymores. Too risky.

  Bullets it was.

  Time seemed to blur, then. He existed solely to shoot, pull back, and reload. He was only vaguely aware when the second 240 went dry. Harr pitched it over the wall, momentarily disrupting the climbers. The zulus had formed something not unlike a pyramid, and the peak was closing the distance to the top of the warehouse. One of the lead zulus thrust a spear upward, and Ross pulled back in time to avoid being skewered.

  “Engines are up! Releasing the first lines now!” Pete heard the flat cracks over the radio and from over his shoulder, and as he turned to look, the white cloud of the lift bag bloomed from the opening in the roof like a mushroom. It carried the body of the craft up and out, and then the entire thing bounced as it reached the limits of the second set of tethers.

  The angled ramp at the rear of the craft dropped and hung loose, a bit higher than the level of the roof and perhaps three feet from the edge. Mind the gap, Pete thought, not a little incoherently, and grinned despite himself.

  He turned back and assessed the growing pile below them. Too soon and they’d blow the claymores for little impact. “How’s your side, Top?”

  “Getting there.”

  “On your call,” Pete replied. The dogpile on this side drew ever closer. Sergeant Watson, the man he’d entrusted with the clacker, gave him a questioning look. “Wait for it, wait for it.”

  Gray-skinned hands clutched the edge of the roof and pulled a leprous head up and over.

  Pete backed away and raised his rifle to his shoulder. He fired into the top zulu and shouted, “Fire in the hole!”

  The surviving Marines and the SEALs pulled back from the wall and ducked down behind the knee wall. The rippling explosion of the daisy-chained claymores rattled off like the world’s biggest strand of Black Cat firecrackers. The follow-up to the zulu he’d shot was blown in half, the blast ripping its hands away from the roof sending it to fall out of sight.

  “Go, go, go!” Pete roared. He turned and headed for the Orca. He’d had nightmares about moments like this, and he half expected his prosthetics to lock up or fail on him. He’d spent most of his last bottle hobbling around with only one functional limb, but the machinist’s mate who’d repaired his leg had done a fine job. He was no track star, but he had no trouble keeping up with his men.

  As they neared the opening in the roof and their salvation, he heard another series of explosions as McFarlane blew his own claymores and the Marines on the east side of the warehouse began to pull out.

  We’re going to make it, he thought with no small sense of wonder. We’re actually going to—

  And then the muscle-bound zulu vaulted onto the roof like an undead Olympian and proceeded to tear into the Marines on the east wall.

  April 3, 2026

  Aboard the USS Jack Lucas

  Z-Day + 3,089

  The port Browning was down. Something in the firing mechanism snapped with a sharp ting of metal-on-metal, and it would fire no more.

  Unable to fire, the pair of sailors on that side started to haul what little ammunition they had left over to the starboard gun. The gunners who could still shoot took on a frantic air. The side-to-side motion of the big machine gun became
more and more erratic as the zulu rate of advance leaped forward in the face of only one gun.

  Wilhite stepped back to the hatch and tried to hail Lieutenant Commander Nunez, but he wasn’t answering. She stepped outside once more and gnawed on her lower lip as she studied the frantic figures at the bow of her ship. With a slight nod of self-satisfaction, she trotted forward and waved for the attention of the gunner’s mates.

  “I need runners! Jog the XO’s elbow and let him know the situation up here, he’s not answering on the radio.” She gave the COB a look. “Chief Mackey and I will take over. Make sure you secure the hatch on the way.”

  One of the GMs hesitated for the barest of seconds before replying, “Aye-aye, Captain. Report to the XO and have him radio you.” He saluted crisply, and the other three seamen followed suit.

  As her people headed aft, Wilhite stepped up to the Browning and gave it a brief once-over. If nothing else, the short break in firing had given it some time to cool down a bit. She took hold of the spade grips and swung the barrel back into line. Zulu had packed into a narrower front as the water deepened, which made this task a bit easier, but they were also coming along faster, as well.

  “Cap, I’d be remiss if I didn’t remind you that the whole ‘going down with the ship’ is an outdated concept. Zulu ain’t gonna pump you for intelligence. He’s gonna eat you or turn you.”

  Wilhite smiled faintly. The thought hadn’t crossed her mind. “I’m just here to kill zulu and give my people time to get off the boat, COB.”

  “Well, praise the Lord and pass the ammunition, Captain.”

  “That’s your job!” The gunner she’d dismissed had slipped a shell-casing under the butterfly trigger to prevent an accidental discharge. She slipped it out of the way and pressed the trigger home. The thundering boom of each .50-caliber round felt like a trip hammer right behind her heart, and she’d have been lying if she’d claimed there wasn’t something exhilarating about running the line of tracers back and forth across the zombies’ reverse beachhead. The elation was short-lived, though, as she ran through the rest of the belt. Slowly at first, then more rapidly as the two of them fell into a rhythm, she and the Chief loaded a fresh belt. It hadn’t seemed like long—and in truth, it had been under twenty seconds—but by the time she began to fire again, the front edge of the horde had advanced to within a hundred feet of the ship.

  Need to change this up somehow, slow them down. On a hunch, she pitched the barrel of the Browning down a bit. Now the rounds were slamming into the mass below the knee, carrying on at an angle. To an extent, it seemed to work —the front ranks rippled and fell into the ocean as the supporting pile broke up. Too bad these suckers don’t bleed anymore. The sharks would have a field day and help keep us clear.

  She didn’t hear Mackey’s shout, but the quick bang-bang-bang of his sidearm drew her attention to the port rail. Dozens of gray, grasping hands were visible, and although the COB’s shooting had taken one down, more appeared to replace it. A half-skinned skull rose above the level of the rail and the bearer of the leering face tumbled onto the deck.

  All this time, she realized numbly. We thought they were all on the surface, but how many more found their feet underwater? How many are below us, right this instant?

  It didn’t have to be a huge number, of course. The water here was no more than forty feet deep, but the realization was jarring. “Run!” she shouted to the COB, and he turned and sprinted away right at her side. Behind them, a growing crescendo of thumping noises testified to the swelling mass that had reached the deck.

  “No time for the hatch, Captain,” the COB managed between breaths. He was not a young man by any stretch of the imagination, but she supposed fear of imminent death was as great an elixir of youth as any.

  Wilhite didn’t have long to consider his words, but the slap-slap-slap of running feet on the deck behind them put a point of emphasis on his assessment. “As far back as we can get,” she agreed. It was going to be a hell of a high dive, but nothing worse than the tallest at the Y back home.

  She reached the rail next to the closed hatch leading into the ship and hurdled it in one motion. It might have been better for the fall, perhaps, if she’d paused to execute a more classic jump, but she didn’t dare take the time.

  Arms windmilling, Captain Wilhite put her legs together, pointed her toes down, and hoped like hell whatever number had gotten below her ship hadn’t gotten this far aft.

  The impact with the water was jarring, but she’d gotten herself oriented to kick up from the bottom and away from the ship. The salt burned her eyes as she stole a glance at the bottom. Sand swirled, far below her, and fish darted, but nothing strode across the sunken shore or reached for her with bony fingers.

  Which didn’t get them out of the woods, of course. She hadn’t heard the COB splash in beside her, but she heard a series of vague, ongoing splats behind her as the creatures who’d taken the deck followed them off.

  Before she surfaced, Wilhite rolled onto her side and looked back. It was far enough away to be murky by now, but none of their pursuers swam after them. The reached out with yearning hands, but as they hit the water they continued to fall until they reached the bottom.

  She broke the surface and took a greedy gulp of air. Moments later, the COB followed suit. Treading water, she managed, “All right there, Chief?”

  “Gettin’—” Gasp. “Too—” Gasp. “Old for this, Cap.”

  Aren’t we all. She opened her mouth to reply, but a call from behind made the two of them turn in curiosity. “Ahoy!”

  Next to the Lucas, the sailboat cutting through the waves and headed in their general direction looked a bit like a toy. But it was a welcome sight, as was the tanned and grinning face of the man leaning over the side.

  Wilhite took the lead and kept swimming—the thought of a growing mass beneath her feet was giving her the willies—but the sailboat did most of the work. The boat turned smartly around, close enough that the younger man who’d called out to them and another, older man could throw Wilhite and the COB lines to haul them closer.

  Out of the water, she began shivering. “Thanks. We should probably get the hell out of there. There’s a horde walking around on the bottom.”

  The older man grimaced, and the young guy shook his head. “We had a pretty good thing going until you guys showed up and ruined everything.” He winked at her to indicate the joke, then stuck out a hand. “Nick Avina. This here’s my buddy Louie and my girlfriend Amber is back there at the helm.”

  Wilhite hadn’t even seen the noticeably pregnant blonde until Avina pointed her out. She waved at the younger woman, and exchanged handshakes with Louie. “Thanks. Any chance we can head to aft? I’d like to make sure we were able to get everyone off.” She hadn’t heard the helicopters, and that concerned her, though the bow had fallen much sooner than she’d expected it might.

  “No worries, Captain,” Nick grinned. “We took on enough of your peeps and supplies that your guy Nunez said that was everyone except for you two. So now that I got you, I guess we’re headed for Anacapa?”

  Teeth starting to chatter a bit—the breeze had picked up offshore—Wilhite nodded. “That’s the one.”

  “Sweet.” Nick waved a hand to Amber. “South, babe! Follow the fleet.”

  As she watched the imposing bulk of her ship recede, Wilhite couldn’t help but shake her head in dismay. Some fleet.

  “No worries, Captain,” Chief Mackey murmured. “We’ll get her back, and good as new.”

  April 3, 2026

  Lockheed Skunkworks

  Z-Day + 3,089

  Charlie’s ears rang like bells after the claymore explosion, but the signal had been enough to drive him to turn and run for the aircraft. If anyone had called out a warning, he didn’t hear it. From the stunned reactions of the men around him, he supposed that none of them heard anything, either.

  The dark blur landed in front of them, cutting off their path to the Orca. At first, he w
as too stunned to recognize it for what it was, but then realization hit him. It was the alpha that Mebane had shot. It was still up, and though there was a visible depression in its head where the bullet had passed through, it was slowly filling in with the same gray material that mottled the rest of its skin.

  Charlie fired, along with a couple of the other Marines, but the alpha took the shots with no visible impact. And then it was among them, and they had no time left to fire.

  “Run!” Lance Corporal Ropati roared, stepping forward to confront the beast. When Charlie had first encountered him, he’d thought the Samoan to be literally the largest man he’d ever encountered—taller and far more muscular than big Dalton, one of his old salvage crew—but though the alpha looked shorter, it was wider and presumably heavier.

  Yeah, Charlie thought with a crazed bark of laughter, but it’s juicing on nanos.

  Ropati met the thing bare-handed. He didn’t know if the man intended to grapple with it, or simply hold it at bay until the rest of the Marines could get by, but the battle roar turned into a shriek as the thing clasped hands with the Samoan—and tore his arms off.

  Blood sprayed from the stumps as Ropati stumbled backward. It was a cruel blessing when the alpha snapped out a quick punch. A fist the size of a canned ham slammed into the Marine’s chest, and even with the fading ring in his ears, Charlie could hear the crack of bone and the liquid grunt Ropati made as his lungs filled with blood. The dying man toppled like a fallen redwood.

  “Haul ass, Marines!” Del Arroz called. He pulled his Ka-Bar from the sheath at his waist and crouched. Charlie sidestepped. He wanted to help, but he didn’t want to get in the way. Others passed by the scrum, sprinting toward waiting salvation.

  With a wordless cry, Del Arroz drove toward the alpha. His knife led the way, heading for its skull.

  If a bullet to the head didn’t stop it, will a knife? Charlie raised his rifle, found he had no line of fire that wouldn’t hit the Orca or one of the other Marines, and lowered it.