Last Stand (The Survivalist Book 7)

by Arthur Bradley

  Tanner marched out onto the cement walkway like a night watchmen confronting a group of teenagers caught skinny dipping.

  As he got closer, the oldest of the men said, “Good morning, stranger.”

  Tanner glanced over at the woman in the water. Wet hair hung down in front of her face like strands of seaweed, but through it, he could see that her skin was scarred from the pox. Even so, she possessed a wild beauty that neither tangled hair nor blemishes could hide.

  “Not for her it isn’t.”

  The man offered a reassuring smile.

  “Travis is doing God’s work.”

  Travis jerked the woman’s head back, tilting her face up to the sunlight. She screamed and pressed her black eyes shut.

  “See?” said Travis, obviously indifferent to her pain. “The Devil’s gotten into this one.”

  “And you figured a little baptizing might do the trick, is that it?”

  “Exactly.”

  The older man stepped closer and extended his hand.

  “I’m Riley Cooper, and these are my boys, Mitch and Travis.” He turned and nodded toward the chubby woman. “Jena here joined us a while back. She’s helping to ensure that God’s seed is replanted.” The woman puffed out her bosom, as if showing off her wares at a brothel.

  “I’m sure she is,” Tanner said, making no move to shake the man’s hand. It was a sucker’s play from way back when. And even if it wasn’t, he felt no need to assure the man of his having friendly intentions.

  The infected woman tried to get to her feet, and when she did, Travis dunked her head back under, holding it for a good ten count. When he finally pulled her back up, she coughed and spat as dark green water trickled from her nose.

  Tanner said, “Keep doing that, and she’s going to drown.”

  “Who are you to question God’s will?” argued Travis. “Besides, she’s nothing but a wild animal.” He slid the knife free from his belt and placed the blade against her throat. The woman became very still, her eyes opening to reveal their inky black contents. “If I slit her throat, it would be no different than killing a rabid dog.”

  “It’d be different,” growled Tanner.

  “How do you figure?”

  He swung the shotgun up. “Because if you open her up, I’m going to open you up.”

  Travis’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve got no cause to threaten us. People have been killing these monsters since the virus first got out.”

  “Maybe so, but this one’s not dying by your hand.”

  Tanner saw the woman mouth something but couldn’t make it out. Maybe a thank you. Maybe just crazy infected talk. Either way, it didn’t matter. He wasn’t doing this for her. Not really, he wasn’t. Samantha would probably say he was only intervening because she had nagged him into it, and that part was true enough. But the real reason he was stepping in was because four assholes had forgotten the value of human life. And that was something he couldn’t walk away from.

  “We’re trying to purify her spirit by ridding her of the hate,” explained Riley. “This is about mercy, not violence.”

  Tanner felt his blood pressure start to rise. He didn’t like religious zealots of any flavor, but he held a special loathing for the ones who hid behind faith as a means to inflict suffering. When there was a need to hurt someone, it was better to just come out with it. No need to hide behind frilly religious veils.

  “Yeah,” he said, “nothing says godly love better than a little waterboarding. Now listen up, because I’m only going to say this once.” He paused to be sure that he had everyone’s attention. “Let her go.”

  Riley, Mitch, Jena, and Travis all started to protest at once, arguing something about respecting the sanctity of their religious beliefs.

  Tanner held up a hand. “Save it.”

  The four exchanged glances, obviously trying to come to a collective mind on whether or not to comply. Jena whispered something to Mitch that seemed to sting like a hot butter knife. The young man stepped up beside Riley, clutching the bat in front of him with both hands.

  “Think twice about what you’re about to do,” warned Tanner. “You wouldn’t be the first knuckleheads to go to your graves because of a mouthy woman.”

  “It’s like Jena said. There are four of us, and only one of you.”

  Tanner patted the shotgun. “That’s true, but this is what the military likes to call a force multiplier.”

  Their eyes focused on the business end of the shotgun, and it seemed to weaken their resolve.

  Riley looked over at Travis. “Let her go, son.”

  “But we need another woman.” He glanced at Jena. “No offense.”

  She snorted and turned her nose up.

  “Just let her go. God will provide.”

  Travis begrudgingly let go of the woman’s hair and raised his hands slightly into the air. As soon as he did, all hell broke loose. The woman immediately bolted out of the water, splashing her way up the embankment. But she didn’t turn and race away like everyone expected her to do. Instead, she tore into the small group, biting, clawing, and screaming like the bride of a Viking berserker.

  Riley and Mitch both spun around, pushing her away as they tried to create a gap large enough for their bats. Travis, too, raced after her, drawing his knife.

  Tanner watched the melee for a split second and then stepped forward and beaned Mitch in the back of the head with the butt of his shotgun. The man’s legs buckled, and he crumpled to the concrete. Riley turned and shoved the point of his bat into Tanner’s chest. The blow didn’t have much behind it, but it was enough to irritate him.

  Tanner flipped the shotgun around, gripped the muzzle, and swung it at Riley’s head, one bat against another. The stock caught him on the cheekbone, and he tumbled into the reservoir.

  By the time Tanner looked back, the infected woman had managed to knock Jena to the ground and was now beating and scratching her face. For her part, Jena had resorted to wrapping her arms around her head as she tried desperately to fend off the wildcat off. What the infected woman couldn’t see was Travis racing up behind her with his knife raised.

  Tanner’s options were limited at best. Travis was only eight feet from the women, while he was a good fifteen. Basic math said there was no way he was going to get to Travis before his blade drew blood. Nor could he fire the shotgun without the very real chance of winging the infected woman in the back, something that would undoubtedly put a real damper on the rescue effort.

  With two of the four already out of commission, Tanner made a calculated gamble that things could be handled without the use of a firearm. He reared back and flung the shotgun along the ground like a Hopi throwing stick. It caught Travis in the back of his left knee, and he stumbled and fell, the knife skittering away into the water.

  Tanner closed the gap with three large steps and high stomped on the back of his neck. Travis’s face smacked into the concrete, breaking his nose and splitting open his chin. He cried out in pain, but before he could put up any kind of fight, Tanner reached down and rolled him off into the reservoir. The man’s head quickly bobbed back to the surface, and he splashed his way toward Riley.

  Meanwhile, Jena had managed to briefly free herself from the infected woman and was hurriedly crawling into the water to escape the vicious onslaught. By the time the infected woman got to her feet, only she and Tanner remained on the walkway. With the others out of the way, he could now see her more clearly. Even covered in grime, it was clear that she had once been an incredibly beautiful woman. The virus had taken its toll to be sure, leaving her skin scarred and her eyes glistening with black ink. But it had also enhanced her strong lean body, and she stood before him like an Amazon warrior, violent and raw.

  Tanner gave her a quick nod and reached down to retrieve his shotgun.

  When she spoke, her voice was soft but throaty, like she had been freed from the hangman’s noose.

  “Why?” she breathed.

  He glanced over at her captors, al
l of whom were cupping split lips or broken noses.

  “I guess I’m more like you than I am them.”

  She touched a scar on her cheek.

  “But I’m a monster.”

  He shrugged. “Had the same said about me a time or two.”

  Her lips turned up into a sly grin.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Tanner. You?”

  “Issa.”

  Tanner didn’t know if it was short for Melissa, but it seemed to fit her well enough.

  He nodded. “Good to meet you, Issa.”

  She stepped closer, and Tanner couldn’t help but tighten his grip on the shotgun. Issa came so close that he could feel the steam radiating off her body. Her hand slowly came up and rested against his cheek.

  “Thank you.”

  That’s when things got a little weird. Issa suddenly leaned in and kissed him on the mouth. Despite her inky eyes and scarred flesh, he felt no urge to retreat. Her lips were warm and moist, and he saw only the beautiful woman who once was. The kiss lasted but a single second, and when she pulled away, her black eyes studied him for a reaction.

  He smiled, which in turn brought one to her lips. An instant later she was racing across the walkway, eventually disappearing behind a pump station designed to look like a small medieval castle—undoubtedly, an architect’s clever idea to spruce up an otherwise dull water storage facility.

  “That was an abomination to God,” declared Riley.

  Tanner turned to face him. Riley’s two sons and their family concubine stood beside him in the waist-deep water.

  “Your God, maybe. Mine just stood up and saluted.” Tanner took one last look in Issa’s direction before turning and marching back the way he had come.

  Samantha was so excited that she was nearly hyperventilating.

  “You kissed her? You actually kissed her?”

  “I didn’t kiss her. She kissed me. Besides, it wasn’t like we made out.”

  “Was it, you know, gross?”

  “No, it wasn’t gross,” he said, leading them back down the embankment. “She’s a woman, isn’t she?”

  “Still, I never thought I’d see you kiss one of them. Not ever.”

  “What can I say? I’m an equal opportunity kisser.”

  “Did you…” She wrinkled her nose. “…like it?”

  Tanner thought about the question. “Yes, I believe I did.”

  She shook her head in utter disbelief.

  “Wow.”

  He chuckled. “It wasn’t that weird.”

  “Believe me, it was.”

  “Truth is, I thought about asking her out on a date. Maybe take her to one of those little Italian joints where they play violins and serve fancy bottles of wine that no one can pronounce.”

  “Right,” she said, patting him on the back. “And after that, you two could get married and have little baby zombies.”

  “Yeah, maybe.” For some reason, her words brought a small stab of pain that Tanner couldn’t begin to explain. Perhaps it was because he knew that Issa would likely never know that kind of companionship, or maybe it wasn’t about her at all. “Come on,” he said, stepping out onto Canal Road. “It’s still a good three miles to the hospital, and the day isn’t getting any younger.”

  Chapter 6

  Two CH-47F Chinooks flew in tight formation, flanked on either side by X-49 SpeedHawks. Pintle-mounted M134 miniguns protruded from the open cargo doors of the SpeedHawks, soldiers standing ready to unleash death from above. The helicopters approached from the southeast, traversing up Dry Creek to pass over the small towns of Allegheny and Tuckahoe. As they drew closer to White Sulphur Springs, they slowed and proceeded with more caution, their crews scanning the ground for anything that might pose a threat.

  The co-pilot of the lead Chinook leaned back and hollered for Morant and Hood to look out the starboard side of the aircraft. Both men stood and hurried to the circular windows. The helicopter had just passed over I-64, and a small train station lay to the northeast. Colorful trim and striped candy-cane pillars made it look more like a gingerbread house than a functional transportation hub. Four sand-colored, extended-capacity HMMWVs sat parked at odd angles in the station’s parking lot. Two of the vehicles towed trailers, one equipped with a portable generator and the other a large pneumatic catapult used for launching unmanned aerial vehicles.

  Hood pointed out the window. “Who the hell are they?”

  “It’s an RQ-7 Shadow team.”

  “Are we in danger?” He searched the sky for the 375-pound aircraft. He didn’t see it, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t there. UAVs were capable of monitoring and destroying targets at ranges that prevented their being seen or heard. They had become modern warfare’s stealthiest spies, as well as its deadliest assassins.

  Morant shook his head. “The Shadow’s a reconnaissance aircraft, no weapons.”

  “Even so, that means someone with access to military resources is watching the bunker.”

  “You sure it’s not Pike?”

  “He’d have told me. This is someone else’s doing.”

  “We don’t want eyes on what we’re about to do, General.”

  “Agreed. Can you get rid of them without a lot of fuss?”

  “I’m sure we can manage.” Morant stepped away from the window and made his way up to the cockpit.

  The co-pilot turned to face him.

  “Sir?”

  “Have Blackbird 1 take ’em out.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The co-pilot spoke into his microphone, and seconds later, one of the SpeedHawks broke from formation. Morant returned to the window just in time to see two AGM-114R Hellfire Romeo missiles separate from the SpeedHawk’s external wing assembly. Traveling at nearly a thousand miles an hour, the 110-pound missiles took mere seconds to reach their target. Two thunderous fireballs erupted in unison.

  General Hood grabbed the back of one of the seats as shock waves rocked the helicopter.

  A few surviving soldiers stumbled out of the billowing cloud of black smoke, only to be ripped apart by the miniguns. The SpeedHawk hovered in place for a few moments longer, a steady stream of shell casings raining down as the minigun sprayed thousands of rounds at the target. When it finally stopped firing, charred and bloody bodies lay strewn across the train station’s parking lot.

  “I thought I said without a lot of fuss,” growled Hood.

  “Perhaps our definitions differ, General. For me, that was without a lot of fuss.”

  “How so?”

  “No one shot back.”

  Hood eyed the man uneasily, once again reminded that professional killers were just that, professional killers.

  He nodded and cleared his throat.

  “Right.”

  The Chinook banked left, and both of them turned back to the window and watched as The Greenbrier slowly came into view. The white Victorian manor was roughly in the shape of a giant sideways L, behind which lay a lush green golf course.

  Morant immediately turned to Buckey. The man was sitting in a nearby jump seat with his eyes closed and mouth dangling open.

  “Wake up, sunshine,” he said, kicking Buckey’s feet. “You’re up.”

  General Kent Carr approached the far end of the four-hundred-foot-long West Tunnel, listening to the sound of his boot heels thudding on the dull gray cement. The air in the tunnel was stale and somewhat humid from the lack of circulation. Despite clearly seeing that the twenty-five-ton blast door remained closed, he felt the need to once again lay his hand on its heavy metal wheel, like a person suffering from an obsessive compulsive disorder.

  The safety of all those in the bunker depended on the blast doors. If Hood and his commandos managed to find a way in, President Glass and her small untrained group of supporters would be systematically eliminated. Thankfully, even with modern munitions, Carr didn’t believe that it would be possible for them to breach the doors, certainly not without making a real mess of things outside. And
a mess was exactly what they would be trying to avoid.

  Nevertheless, firmly believing that paranoia was the bedrock of safety, he had established around-the-clock foot patrols. Duties included walking the enormous bunker, as well as inspecting each of the four doors at least once per shift. With General Carr, Bill Baker, Tom Pinker, Jack Fry, and Dr. Tran now passing the baton of guard duty every hour, it meant that there would never be more than sixty minutes between inspections of the doors.

  Carr placed his hand on the cold metal wheel and double-checked that the pistons were fully recessed into the wall. They were. He turned around and spotted a lone figure standing at the other end of the long tunnel. Even at a distance, he could see that it was Bill Baker, the nation’s Secretary of Energy, if such a post still existed. Baker was a big colorful chap, full of life, not to mention inflated stories of his many worldly exploits.

  They approached one another, each adopting his own pace.

  When they finally met, Carr glanced at his watch.

  “You’re five minutes early.”

  Baker shrugged. “It’s not like I can sleep in the middle of the day.” His voice was permanently hoarse from a bayonet wound he had suffered to his throat many years earlier.

  “Suit yourself.” Carr looked down at his belt. “Where’s your sidearm?”

  Baker reached around and pulled the Sig Sauer .22 Mosquito from the back of his waistband.

  “You’ve got me damn near sleeping with this pea shooter.”

  “Good. It might just save your life.” Carr glanced at his watch again. “Dr. Tran is on after you. If he gives you any trouble, wake me immediately.”