V Plague (Book 16): Brimstone

by Dirk Patton

  I saw a look pass between the men, but they didn’t say anything.

  “What do you know?” I growled.

  “We don’t know you, mate,” Angus, my former prisoner said. “Why should we tell you anything?”

  “Yeah,” one of the others spoke up. “And there’s five of us and only one of you. You should be going before we teach you a lesson for stickin’ a knife in Angus’s face.”

  He looked around for support from his friends, which didn’t seem to be forthcoming.

  “Not something you want to try,” I said, addressing him directly.

  When you’re facing off with a group, there’s always that one person who will try to goad the others into taking action, regardless of the potential consequences. There’s two ways to handle them. Kill them immediately to put the fear of God in the others, or challenge them directly until they back down. If they don’t, well, there’s always option one.

  I couldn’t read the bad vibe I was getting off these guys. If I was back in American, they were what we’d call some good ol’ boys. But that didn’t mean they weren’t up to something worse than looting a liquor store. And sure as hell didn’t give them a pass if they knew something that would help me find Mavis.

  After several seconds of staring at each other, the man’s eyes slid away and I knew I wouldn’t have to press the point with him. He shuffled his feet a moment and turned to look at the cart full of booze next to him.

  “Just point me in the right direction,” I said. “If it’s someone you’re worried about knowing you talked, it’ll be fine. If they’ve got her, none of ‘em are going to survive the day.”

  They all traded glances again, then Angus spoke up.

  “Bunch of crazy wankers. Street gang. Outlaw bikers, like Hells Angels or the Nomads. These guys call themselves Notorious and they’re a bunch of fuckin’ darkies.”

  A couple of the other men nodded agreement.

  “Why would they want a little girl?” I asked.

  “Your guess is as good as mine.”

  “Where do I find them?”

  Angus turned to point out the front windows. “Two blocks that way, then down an alley. There’s an old machine shop went out of business. They just moved in and took over.”

  “How many of ‘em?”

  “Not sure,” he said, shrugging. “A bunch. Don’t really know and don’t wanna know. People ‘round here go the other way they see ‘em comin’. Cops don’t even mess with ‘em unless they got a whole bunch of backup. And mister, they’re dangerous.”

  I nodded. Starting to turn away, I hesitated a moment when something protruding from one of the men’s pockets caught my eye.

  “So am I,” I said.

  33

  After visiting the park with all the Russian bodies, Martinez and Titus had returned to his bunker. Heavily arming themselves, they’d gone back up to street level. Two doors down from the outfitter store above his home was an automotive repair shop that was locked up tightly. One of the steel rolling doors had the painted mark left by the Russian troops to indicate they’d checked the building during their search for Major Chase.

  Picking through a ring of keys, Titus found the correct one and opened a bay to reveal an aging Chevy Blazer. It might have been built before Martinez was born, but it was in pristine condition other than a layer of dust that had settled over it during the past several months. The hood was up, a power tender connected to prevent the battery from dying while in storage.

  “Where’s the electricity coming from?” Martinez asked as he disconnected the device from the terminals.

  “Solar,” he said, gesturing at the ceiling. “Got panels up top on all the buildin’s.”

  The Blazer started on the first try, the engine immediately settling into a smooth idle. They headed south out of town, a few miles later Titus slowing to steer around the wreckage of a Humvee. A few yards away, the desiccated carcass of what had been a very large cow lay across the northbound lane.

  “Wouldn’t want to ‘ave been the fellar that was drivin’,” Titus said as they slowly rolled past the accident.

  “No shit,” Martinez said, noting the amount of damage to the heavy military vehicle.

  Ten minutes later, they drove through the main gate at Mountain Home Air Force Base. Both were pleased when they weren’t greeted by a mob of infected, but weren’t about to assume they wouldn’t be attacked around the next corner.

  “That way,” Martinez said, pointing.

  Titus shot her a glance, but did as she asked.

  “Why we goin’ there? Ain’t we gonna find a helicopter over by them hangars?”

  He nodded to their right where the roofs of several large buildings were visible on the horizon.

  “Quick stop at the BX. Need some clothes.”

  She was wearing a flower print dress that had belonged to Titus’s late wife. It was several sizes too large and hung nearly to her feet, which were thrust into a pair of fuzzy house slippers. The clothes she’d been wearing when he took her in were in tatters and beyond the point of coming clean.

  Titus grunted again, but if he had any thoughts he kept them to himself. Driving carefully, he reached the sprawling building and pulled to a stop at the entrance to the parking lot.

  “Figure it’s abandoned?” he asked, staring at a lone Hummer sitting close to the door of the BX.

  The vehicle sat tilted due to a flat tire on the left rear. Windblown trash had collected against the wheels and the glass was nearly opaque from sitting out in the weather.

  “Looks like,” Martinez said. “Let’s keep our eyes open, just in case.”

  Titus eased forward, stopping a good thirty yards short of the Humvee. They sat for a few moments, the Blazer’s big engine burbling in the eerie silence of the abandoned air base.

  “Sure this a good idea, missy? Awful big buildin’ and there ain’t no lights on.”

  Martinez grimaced slightly when he called her that. At first, she’d taken offense, but had reminded herself that this was simply the way the man talked. He didn’t mean any disrespect. Besides, it’s hard to get upset at someone who took you in when you needed it most.

  “A cockpit is a tight place. I don’t want to be trying to fly with all this loose fabric flapping around. And I sure as hell can’t be walking around in slippers that would last about two seconds if we had to set down somewhere other than pavement.”

  “We?” Titus asked. “Didn’t say nothin’ ‘bout goin’ with ya, missy.”

  Martinez turned and looked into his eyes.

  “So, what? You’re going to stay here and drink yourself to death? Or stick that revolver in your mouth?”

  Titus looked away and didn’t say anything.

  “I saw it sitting next to your chair when I first came in. Saw all the empties, too, even if you did clean up while I was sleeping. Am I right? That the plan? Drink enough for courage then pull the trigger?”

  Titus shook his head, but couldn’t meet her eyes.

  “Ain’t none of ya business, missy. Just be glad I’m helping ya.”

  She watched him for a long stretch during which they were both silent, then reached out and touched his arm.

  “I am thankful,” she said. “And you’ve got the right to end it however you choose, but I don’t think that’s what you really want. If it was, you would have done it a long time ago.”

  “Don’t know nothin’ ‘bout me, missy. Got my reasons.”

  Martinez slowly nodded without taking her eyes off him.

  “You’re right. I don’t. But, if you can find a way to put off eating your gun, I’d really like it if you came with me. Things might seem a little better with other people around. If there are others. Worst case, we find nothing and come back here. Best case, we find some civilization. Hell, there might even be someone there as cranky as you!”

  He looked at her in surprise.

  “I ain’t cranky!” he snapped.

  “Oh, trust me. You’re cranky.
Remind me of my dad, only he bitched about everything in Spanish.”

  “You’re gettin’ awful uppity, missy,” Titus growled, then frowned when she started laughing. “What’s so goddamn funny?”

  “That’s exactly what I heard from my first instructor when I was learning to fly and I told him I wanted combat rated.”

  Titus’s face fell as he sputtered.

  “I didn’t mean nothin’ like…”

  Martinez stopped him with a raised hand.

  “I know you didn’t. But I proved him wrong and if you’ll quit being so goddamn stubborn, maybe you’ll find out you’re wrong about wanting to give up.”

  They looked at each other a few beats before Titus turned away and sighed.

  “I’ll think on it. Meantime, let’s get you some new duds.”

  Smiling, Martinez lightly slapped his arm and after a careful look around, stepped out of the Blazer and brought her rifle up. Titus joined her and they slowly approached the entrance to the BX. Stepping around an abandoned scooter, they paused at the door, unable to see through the glass into the dark interior. Martinez gently pushed, but it didn’t move.

  “Only swings out,” she said softly as she pulled it open an inch.

  “So?”

  “Never seen an infected that was smart enough to pull a door open or work a knob. So, unless there were some already in there, it might just be clear.”

  Titus grunted and gripped his shotgun tighter as she opened the door an inch at a time, rifle ready to bring into action if needed. With it fully open, she hesitated, then stopped before crossing the threshold.

  “Trick the Major taught me,” she said to Titus.

  Taking a deep breath, she leaned into the building and let out a long, shrill whistle that was loud enough to make Titus grimace.

  “Back!” Martinez said, letting the door close on its own and quickly moving twenty yards away.

  “What the hell you doin’?” Titus asked, standing beside her.

  Both had their weapons trained on the door. Waiting.

  “If there’s infected in there, that will draw them out. Rather face them here in the open where we’ve got light than inside.”

  “Fair ‘nuff,” Titus said after a bit of thought.

  They waited for nearly five minutes. No screaming female came blasting through the door. No shambling male bumped his way out into the parking lot. The only sound was the sighing of a cold wind blowing across the parking lot, pushing trash along with it.

  “Okay, let’s go,” Martinez said, leading the way.

  They moved slowly through the door and headed into the building. Titus tapped her on the arm and pointed at the tile floor. In the dim light coming through the glass entrance, a blood trail could be clearly seen heading deeper inside. Bending, he touched the stains but they were old and dry.

  It took some searching to find the right department and make sure there wasn’t anyone, or thing, hiding in the racks and shelves of uniforms. Satisfied, Martinez quickly located an insulated pilot’s jumpsuit, a pair of boots and a warm jacket. She carried them to a rack and found socks and underwear in the right size before looking at Titus.

  “Turn around,” she mumbled.

  “What? You gonna change here?”

  “Just turn around,” she said, pulling the dress over her head when he did.

  She was quickly dressed, leaning against a shelf to pull the boots on and tie them.

  “Better,” she said when she was done.

  Titus glanced over his shoulder when she spoke.

  “Can we get outta here? Place’s givin’ me the heebie jeebies.”

  “One more stop,” Martinez said, slipping past and leading the way.

  In the sporting goods area, she moved behind the counter and spent a few minutes selecting a variety of knives and securing them on her person.

  “Like blades, do ya?” Titus asked.

  “I do. And if you make one crack about a Mexican liking knives, I’ll castrate you while you sleep.”

  Titus’s eyes widened in surprise, then he chuckled.

  “Missy, you’re gettin’ awful uppity,” he said, a broad smile on his face.

  Martinez frowned, held up a long-bladed knife and waved it slightly, then couldn’t help but laugh and break into a smile.

  “Time to find a ride out of here,” she said.

  34

  The leader of Eagle Team, a group of Marine Raiders, Lieutenant Joseph Tread, fired a long burst from his rifle before leaping back through the door. Two females fell from the hail of bullets, slowing the large group right behind them. Gunnery Sergeant Wilcox slammed the door the instant Tread was inside the building. Almost immediately, muted thumps started up as the infected tried in vain to batter their way through.

  “Thanks, Gunny,” Tread said, turning to survey the rest of his team.

  Eight Marines were spread out, facing away from him with their weapons up and ready to engage any attack from inside the bunker. He nodded in satisfaction, taking a breath and stepping forward.

  It was only a few hours since they’d left the deck of the USS Reagan, which was steaming in the Gulf of Mexico, near the deep-water platform that had drawn so much attention. He had no idea what was special about it, but it was apparently so important that the giant aircraft carrier was staying on station to ensure its safety.

  A Sea Hawk helicopter had ferried the team across the gulf. A second empty Sea Hawk, flying in formation, had come along to take on the equipment they hoped to bring back. Both aircraft had performed an aerial refueling just before crossing the Florida coast. From there, it hadn’t taken long to reach MacDill Air Force Base, the home of the Special Operations Command or SOCOM.

  The base had a significant number of infected roaming around, though it was hardly what Joe would call overrun. But then it didn’t take that many females to make an area extremely dangerous. Fortunately, they’d been accompanied by a Marine Super Cobra which had cleared a large enough area for the Raiders to fast rope down from the hovering Sea Hawk without landing in the welcoming arms of the females.

  But more infected had kept appearing, seemingly coming out of nowhere as their numbers rapidly increased in response to the roar of the two helicopters and the sounds of the Cobra’s munitions. It had quickly expended all its ordnance, leaving the men on the ground to fend for themselves.

  What should have been a two-minute walk to reach the building that was their destination turned into a ten-minute battle as they fought their way through the females. Now, finally, they were inside.

  “What’s our status, Gunny?” Joe asked.

  “A twisted ankle, but he’s mobile. Gettin’ a might low on ammo. Burned through a lot clearin’ a path through those bitches.”

  “Alright,” Joe said, absorbing the information. “What we’re looking for is supposed to be in the basement. Level two. Let’s go.”

  The order was issued and within a few seconds the team began moving forward. It was dark as a tomb inside the secure building and with zero available light, their night vision goggles were inoperable. But each man had come prepared with a high-intensity infrared light mounted on his rifle. The goggles worked in the IR spectrum as efficiently as visible light and the Marines were able to see perfectly as they descended the stairs.

  “You think this is real, sir?” Gunny Wilcox asked quietly as they descended. “Sounds like a bunch of Sci-Fi shit to me.”

  “Beats the hell out of me,” Joe said. “But see that?”

  He aimed his light on a sign bolted to the concrete stairwell wall.

  DARPA SECURE AREA. ABSOLUTELY NO ADMITTANCE.

  DARPA, or the Defense Advanced Research Project Agency, was the collaboration between the Department of Defense and Civilian contractors. They dreamed up and built incredibly advanced equipment and technology to ensure the United States remained one step ahead of its adversaries in the world. If they worked on it, it almost certainly had a war-fighting purpose.

  “Hard to
argue with that, sir,” Wilcox said, then the team came to a stop when the point man radioed that he’d reached the door for their target level.

  “Talk to me, Moss,” Joe mumbled into his radio.

  “Big ass door, sir. Can’t tell how thick, but I’m not sure we brought enough boom stuff.”

  “Stand by. Coming to you,” Joe answered without hesitation.

  He hurried down the stairs, slipping between his men until reaching the landing where Moss waited. Looking over the entrance, he let out a low whistle.

  “Well, that sure wasn’t in the briefing,” he said, reaching out and lightly touching the door’s surface.

  It was big, ten feet tall by nearly five wide, and appeared to have been made from a single slab of solid steel. Even if it was only a couple of inches thick, he agreed that they didn’t have enough plastic explosive to force their way through.

  “No shit, sir,” Moss said. “Gonna show a light.”

  Joe relayed the warning over the radio, then Moss raised his NVGs and clicked on a regular flashlight, which seemed blindingly bright by comparison. He examined the door, pausing on each of four massive hinges.

  “Think we got enough to cut through those?” Joe asked, looking over the man’s shoulder.

  “Maybe.”

  “Don’t want a maybe, Sergeant. If we need to go find some more, tell me now. Shouldn’t be hard to find on base, but we’ll have to breach wherever it’s stored.”

  Joe’s concern was using all the plastic explosive they’d brought and not getting through the door. If they made that error, they wouldn’t be able to force their way into any of the storage locations that contained more.

  “So, we either get this thing open with what we brought, or we go mingle with the ladies and try to find some more. All things considered, I’ll rework the charges and pop this puppy’s can.”

  “Then get to it,” Joe said. “Our ride’s tanking up, but he can’t stay on station forever.”

  “Yes, sir,” Moss said, dropping to a knee and opening his pack as he made a call on the radio.

  Joe turned and headed back up the stairs, stepping aside to make room for the two men Moss had called to assist. Both were demolition experts, though not as experienced as him.