Last Stand (The Survivalist Book 7)

by Arthur Bradley

  Ignoring the pain in his leg, he descended the stairs with three quick hops. The main level hummed with the chatter of electricity flowing through switches and fuses, but it was as empty of inhabitants as the small landing above. Another set of stairs led to the bunker’s lower level. The three 675-kilowatt Fairbanks Morris diesel generators could be heard groaning like the incessant snore of a sleeping dragon. Fortunately, the West Tunnel’s blast door lay on the first floor.

  Blood continued to drip down Buckey’s leg, seeping in and around his boot to leave a bright red trail wherever he passed. Not good, but manageable given the brief mission. Getting to the West Tunnel Entrance required exiting the power plant, traveling along a short corridor, passing through two more sets of doors, and then navigating the four-hundred-and-thirty-three-foot long tunnel. That last part would be tricky because he would have to run the length of the tunnel and get the door open before anyone spotted him. Still, four hundred feet could be done in under twenty seconds, even with a leaky leg. The whole power plant to West Tunnel excursion should take less than two minutes. As for the leg, he could get it tended to once the door was open.

  The mission always had to come first.

  Lieutenant Bell, Corporal Rodriguez, and Private Cobb lay on their bellies, peeking up over the lip of a sand trap as two CH-47F Chinooks descended onto the closest fairway. The huge rotors beat the air, pressing the tall grass flat as the helicopters slowly settled. As soon as their wheels touched down, the rear doors lowered, and dozens of soldiers streamed out.

  All three cadets instinctively ducked their heads. Even hiding at nearly two hundred yards away, it took them a full minute to build the courage to look back up.

  “What’s the marshal expect us to do with that?” Cobb said, watching as the soldiers set up a perimeter around the helicopters. “It’s not like we’re going to win in a shootout. Look at them. There must be fifty of them.”

  “You forget that we have the advantage of surprise,” said Bell.

  “Sorry, Lieutenant,” Rodriguez said, spitting sand from his mouth, “but surprise isn’t going to mean donkey doo against that kind of force.”

  “We also know where they’re headed.”

  “Donkey doo comment still applies.”

  “If we can’t win in a fight, what can we do?” asked Cobb.

  Bell thought for a moment. “We can tie some of them up out here. That way the number who go in will be fewer.”

  “All right, but how?”

  “Simple. We’ll give them something to worry about.”

  Rodriguez cut his eyes toward her.

  “I’m assuming you have something in mind?”

  She pressed her lips together and nodded.

  “We’re going to start by taking out one of their helicopters.”

  General Hood, Morant, and three dozen Black Dogs walked in a staggered column up the sloping driveway. Stables and a corral sat off to their left, and the huge West Tunnel blast door lay at the top of the small hill.

  “Shouldn’t we have heard from—” Hood was interrupted by the sound of their radios squawking.

  “Buckey here, over.”

  Morant raised the handheld unit to his mouth.

  “Go ahead.”

  “Encountered resistance at the air vent. Two men down. Comm link may have been compromised, over.”

  Morant’s jaw tightened. Two men dead even before they had entered the bunker was not part of the plan. Neither was having their newfangled ultrawideband radio system compromised.

  “Can you identify the enemy?”

  “He’s a deputy marshal by the name of Raines, over.”

  “Are you saying that your team was taken out by one man?”

  “He came up from behind us. Didn’t give us much of a chance.”

  “Roger that. Were you at least able to enter the bunker?”

  “I’m in, but I’ll need a medic, over.”

  “Understood. Can you make your way to the West Tunnel Entrance?”

  “Don’t worry. One way or another, I’ll get the door open.”

  “Roger. Standing by.”

  Morant reattached the radio to his MOLLE vest and turned to Hood.

  “Any idea who we’re dealing with?”

  He shrugged. “A loyal diehard, maybe.”

  Morant turned slowly in place, studying their surroundings. A thick copse of trees lay off to the right, and the stables sat to the left.

  He nodded to a small cluster of his men.

  “You three check the stables. After that, flush the trees to make sure we don’t have eyes on us.”

  Without saying a word, the men ducked out of formation and raced away.

  Buckey inched his way up to the door and listened. The incessant drone of power equipment in the room behind him made it impossible to hear much of anything. Either there was someone on the other side, or there wasn’t. Only one way to find out.

  He swung the door open and rushed through, his Hawk up and ready. It was an empty hallway, perhaps twenty feet long and with a door at the opposite end.

  So far, so good.

  He crossed the hallway, leaving behind a streak of bright red blood on the floor. If things went as planned, his would be the only blood spilled in the bunker. The sarin would introduce drooling, vomiting, and diarrhea, but blood, at least, should be kept to a minimum. It might not be much, but in his profession, one learned to be thankful for the small things.

  Once again, he placed his ear against the door, and once again the power plant robbed him of any insight into who – or what – might be on the other side.

  “Through the door, turn right, run, spin the knob, and push,” he said, mentally playing out each action.

  Buckey shoved the door open, but before he could take a single step, he found himself standing face to face with an elderly Chinese man. To be fair, Buckey had no idea whether he was Chinese, Japanese, Vietnamese, Korean, or some other Southeast Asian national, nor he figured did it really matter. The man was short and slight, like most Asian men he had ever met were, and he wore a white doctor’s coat with the word “Tran” embroidered on the front. Buckey’s reaction to anything that surprised him was to strike first and offer apologies later. It had served him well a hundred times before, and he wasn’t about to start making exceptions now.

  He swung the Hawk up from hip level, the pointed tip catching the elderly man under his left armpit. The doctor screamed and tried to turn and run, but the tomahawk had driven so deep into the meaty tissue that he found himself unable to dislodge the metal point. Buckey stepped forward and slipped his thick forearm around the man’s neck. He pulled the doctor back toward him, ripping the Hawk free. Before Tran could offer even the slightest resistance, Buckey brought the weapon up and slid the blade across his throat. Warm blood spilled out, raining down in a thick sheet onto his white coat.

  Tran’s legs gave way, but Buckey held him in place for a few seconds to be sure he was dead. Once the blood stopped pulsing, he dragged the body back into the small corridor and dropped it to the floor. So much for his being the only blood spilled. Oh well, the best laid plans were usually the first to go to shit.

  Buckey glanced back out into the hallway. It was clear, for the moment at least. He rushed forward, passing through the final door. A long lifeless tunnel lay before him, illuminated only by the faint glow of the occasional overhead lamp. The heavy vault door lay more than a football field away, beckoning to him like the impenetrable gate to Oz’s Emerald City.

  “Go time.”

  Buckey ran, pumping the Hawk in his right hand like a relay baton. He focused on absolutely nothing but the door. If someone came into the tunnel, they could try to drop him from behind, but hitting a man running at full tilt wasn’t an easy task. Besides, Buckey figured he could take a couple of shots in the back, if it came to that.

  One way or the other, he was going to open the door.

  Following their brief exchange, Mason gritted his teeth, listening as
the man on the other side of the wall carefully navigated the bunker’s electrical plant. Neither he nor the intruder were careless enough to get in the other’s respective line of fire. It was agonizing to know that his enemy was barely twenty feet away but as unreachable as if he had been standing on the surface of the moon.

  The soldier’s footsteps grew fainter until Mason could no longer hear them. If the man was to be believed, he was heading for the West Tunnel Entrance. Whether or not those inside the bunker were prepared to stop him was impossible to say, but Mason had to assume that they weren’t.

  The radio sounded on one of the fallen soldiers, and he squatted down and pulled it from his vest to listen. The man inside, a soldier named Buckey, quickly communicated his situation to those outside. The conversation was brief, but helpful, because it confirmed their overall plan.

  Mason conducted a quick search of the two men, discovering weapons, ammunition, and small packets of almonds. He left the armament but stuffed the almonds into his front pockets, figuring they might provide energy if faced with a prolonged siege.

  Kneeling in the dark, he considered his options. The most obvious course of action was to race around to the West Tunnel Entrance, tag up with the cadets, and try to disrupt the larger force from entering. That, however, seemed like an uphill fight, especially with the SpeedHawks circling overhead. The only other option was to try to find another way into the bunker and fight the soldiers from within. The Exhibit and air shaft doors were both secure, and the East door, although unchecked, was also likely closed. That left but one way in, and it was anything but a sure thing.

  Mason dropped to a crouch and began shimmying his way back down the long dark tunnel. By the time he reached the shaft that led up, his quadriceps felt like he had just finished deadlifting a dump truck. He stood up, took a moment to stretch the muscles so they wouldn’t cramp, and stepped onto the ladder. Pulling himself up the rungs as quickly as he could manage, he arrived back at the small concrete building. The door remained partially ajar, exactly as he had left it. Even so, he took cover behind the wall and peeked out.

  He looked left and right, taking a long moment to study everything and nothing. Trees swayed. Birds sang. The small slice of universe around him seemed to be in its natural state. Reasonably confident that he wouldn’t be stepping out into a sniper’s crosshairs, Mason hurried toward Leila and Bowie.

  As he drew closer, Leila pushed up and dusted off her trousers. Bowie, too, scrambled to his feet, his tail swishing back and forth.

  “What’s going on?” she asked.

  “They got inside.”

  “You couldn’t follow?”

  “No. One man managed to squeeze through a narrow vent.”

  “And the other two?”

  Mason shook his head.

  “I see. And I suppose the man who made it through will open one of the doors for the rest.”

  “He’s headed to the West Tunnel Entrance as we speak.”

  “That’s where the cadets went.” There was worry in her voice.

  “Yes, but for now, they’re on their own. We need to find another way in.” He started walking back toward The Greenbrier.

  “Wait. Maybe I can fit through the vent. I’m a lot smaller than you.”

  “No,” he said with a quick shake of his head. “It’s too dangerous.”

  “Of course, it’s dangerous. Every bit of this is dangerous. If I can go in and open one of the doors, it could give us a chance to get ahead of them.”

  Mason thought of his brief exchange with Buckey. The man was a killer who would think nothing of gutting Leila and using her entrails as party confetti.

  “No,” he repeated. “We’ll find another way in.”

  “But how? There is no other way in.”

  “There may be one.”

  She furrowed her brow. “How?”

  “The sewer.”

  She stared at him. “You’re kidding, right?”

  Mason said nothing, but the determined look on his face was answer enough.

  “Did you see that pipe? It was beyond disgusting. Besides, we don’t even know that it leads inside. And don’t forget about Ashby’s monster. Who knows what that really is.”

  “All good points.”

  “But?”

  “But I don’t see another way. Do you?”

  Leila heard the frustration in his voice. Mason was not a man used to playing catch-up. She considered pressing her point about crawling through the open vent but decided against it. Instead, she offered what she hoped was a reassuring smile.

  “No, I have nothing better. If you say that going in through the sewers is our best option, then we’ll go into the sewers.” She looked down at Bowie. “But I do feel sorry for him.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because as bad as it’s going to be for us, his heightened sense of smell will make it ten times worse.”

  Mason leaned down and scrubbed Bowie’s chin.

  “Don’t worry, boy, I won’t tell her your little secret. You and I both know that for a dog, the stinkiest odors are often the most interesting.”

  Chapter 10

  Mason, Leila, and Bowie stared down at the slime-infested hole. The sewage was weeks old and would have dried had it not been for water leaking from the hotel’s mains. The eight-foot sewer pipe ran roughly east to west, and if Ashby was to be believed, heading west would route them directly under the bunker. Of course, it was also his assertion that the pipes were the home of a fearsome monster that feasted on the dead.

  “Might as well get dirty,” Mason said, sliding down a flap of torn carpet to land in a small puddle of brown water. Furniture, floor tile, and paintings were strewn about, stirred into the mud and sewage like candy pieces in a frozen dessert. He looked up at Leila and Bowie. “You two coming?”

  The prompt was enough to get both of them moving. Bowie took two short hops and landed so hard that he splashed something green and sticky onto Mason’s pants. The dog smelled of it, but even he didn’t dare take a taste.

  Leila was a bit more careful with her descent, navigating the debris until she had finally settled at the bottom of the blast pit, some twelve feet below ground level. She turned and shined her flashlight into the dark concrete pipe.

  “Are you sure about this?”

  “Not really, no.” Mason started forward, his M4 leading the way.

  For once, Bowie seemed content to stay by his side. Even a dog apparently knew that walking into a sewer purportedly inhabited by a mysterious monster was not the time to be unnecessarily brave.

  The pipe grew darker and wetter, and after a short distance, they came to a junction that allowed them to either turn left or continue straight ahead. The pipe veering off to the left was much narrower, and to get through it, they would have to crawl on their hands and knees. Worse yet, a pungent stench wafted out that caught in their throats.

  Bowie traversed the narrow pipe a short distance, sneezed violently, and then bolted back to them.

  “Tell me we’re not going in there,” Leila said, eyeing the stream of sludge slowly flowing out.

  Mason shook his head. “I can’t see any reason to risk confusing ourselves by taking unnecessary turns. Let’s stay the course for as long as we can.”

  She breathed a sigh of relief.

  The radio on Mason’s belt sounded, and they stopped to listen to the brief conversation that followed. A small team reported that they had finished clearing the stables located by the West Tunnel Entrance.

  “Is that him? Is that the man you shot?”

  “No, those men are outside.”

  “Perhaps it’s General Hood.”

  “Possibly.”

  “Should you… you know, introduce yourself?”

  “Let’s keep them guessing. Right now, they’re not sure if we’re listening.”

  “You’re hoping they might slip up and reveal something important.”

  He shrugged. “We have a unique opportunity to h
ear their chatter. Only time will tell whether or not it proves valuable.”

  “Makes sense.”

  They continued on, carefully placing each step in the sludge so as not to slide down. Bowie moved from one interesting item to the next, sniffing, nudging, and sometimes even licking his find.

  Leila swept her flashlight across the walls and ceiling, searching for a secret hatch that might lead into the bunker.

  “I’ve never been in a sewer before. Have you?”

  “Can’t say that I have.”

  “I wouldn’t have thought it would be so big.”

  He shrugged. “Thousands of guests all taking showers and flushing toilets. The water has to go somewhere.”

  “I suppose.” She flinched as a human arm floated by in the water, a watch still strapped to its wrist. “Do you really think there’s something living down here?”

  “Hard to say. I once heard that a pulsating blob was discovered in the sewers under Raleigh.”

  She made a face. “You’re joking.”

  “Not at all. People were running around claiming that it was some kind of alien life form. I’m sure it was all nonsense.”

  “How do you know?”

  He smiled. “We haven’t been taken over by aliens, have we?”

  She forced a nervous laugh. “Right.”

  Leila stopped and fixed her flashlight on a lump lying on the tunnel floor.

  “What’s that?”

  Mason turned his flashlight on the object. Whatever it was, it wasn’t moving.

  “Check it out, boy,” he said, giving Bowie the signal to go ahead.

  Bowie stood fast, looking up at him as if he didn’t understand.

  “Very funny. Go on.”

  The dog reluctantly trudged forward. When he got to the mound, he stood sniffing it for a few seconds before turning back to Mason as if to say, “Okay, now what?”

  “It must not be alive or Bowie would be more excited. Come on. Let’s go see what it is.”

  Together, they approached the mound with a level of caution fitting of their unusual surroundings. Mason bumped it with his boot, and as it toppled over, he finally understood what they were looking at.