Last Stand (The Survivalist Book 7)

by Arthur Bradley

  Tanner glanced back at Samantha. “My daughter and I are… different.”

  The woman gestured back toward the big man.

  “He don’t like different.”

  “That’s his problem now, isn’t it?”

  She studied him a moment longer, and then nodded.

  “I suppose it is. I’m Marlo, by the way.”

  “Tanner. And this here’s Sam.”

  Marlo nodded to her.

  Samantha stepped closer, still eyeing the big man holding the pipe.

  “Perhaps you could tell your friend that we don’t mean him any harm?”

  “I could, but there’s nothing saying he’d believe me.”

  “Even so, it couldn’t hurt to try.” She smiled and offered a little shrug. “Could it?”

  Marlo snorted and then walked back to the big man. They argued for a short time, both becoming animated with their hands. The man finally quieted, but the group made no effort to return to their camp.

  Apparently satisfied with the outcome, Marlo returned to Tanner and Samantha.

  “He says you and the little one need to go see Mother.”

  “Who’s Mother?” asked Samantha.

  The woman struggled to answer.

  “Is she your leader?”

  “No,” she said simply. “She’s Mother.”

  Tanner looked at the group of men up ahead. It was clear they weren’t prepared to take no for an answer.

  “Is she in one of the tents?” he asked, imagining an old medicine woman rocking back and forth as she squinted at dice made from dried animal bones.

  “No, Mother’s at home.”

  “Which is where exactly?”

  She pointed behind her. “That way.”

  Tanner considered their options. Even with he and Samantha both armed, there were far too many infected to fight. Their choices were either to comply and see what came next, or to run like hell. Neither alternative was great, but he had always believed that when faced with two crappy choices, it was best to pick the one that didn’t involve turning your back.

  “All right,” he said. “I guess we’re going to see Mother.”

  Chapter 15

  The Black Dogs waited at the top of the driveway in a tight defensive position, soldiers situated behind cover with their weapons pointing out. Morant and Hood crouched next to a white pickup that had a Greenbrier grounds maintenance logo painted on the side.

  “What’s taking him so long?” asked Hood.

  “Buckey’s being careful, which is exactly how we want him to be.”

  Hood didn’t argue the point. Morant was right, of course. Buckey’s success, or lack thereof, would decide whether they got in or went home with nothing more than a sad story. And that meant that not doing something stupid was paramount to his mission.

  An explosion shook the air, and a cloud of black smoke billowed up from behind the trees.

  “What the hell was that?” cried Hood.

  Morant grabbed his radio, but before he could key the mic, a voice sounded.

  “We’re under attack! Carrier 1 is on fire. Carrier 2 spinning up.”

  Morant stepped out from behind the truck and grabbed a pair of binoculars from one of the men. He hopped up onto the hood and strained to see the golf course below, barely making out bright orange flames dancing between the trees.

  He brought the radio to his mouth and said, “Blackbird 1, get eyes on the Chinooks.”

  A moment later, one of the SpeedHawks raced overhead. When the pilot spoke, his voice had a mechanical nasally sound to it.

  “A vehicle crashed into Carrier 1. The fuel tank ruptured and caught fire, over.”

  Hood looked up. “That marshal wasn’t alone.”

  “We’ll deal with it.” Morant pressed the button. “Sweep the area using infrared.”

  “Roger. What are the rules of engagement, over?”

  “If you see something you don’t like, kill it.”

  “Roger, wilco. Blackbird 1 out.”

  The second Chinook rose over the tree line, the huge tandem rotors whipping the air with a heavy whoop, whoop, whoop.

  “Carrier 2 requesting permission to reposition north a few clicks, over.”

  “Granted,” said Morant. “Blackbird 2, go with them.”

  “Roger.”

  Within seconds, the second SpeedHawk and Chinook could be seen moving away to the north.

  Morant called together a team of five of his men. All seemed more than ready for whatever task lay before them.

  “I believe we have a small number of hostiles in the area. Find them and kill them. Go!”

  The men immediately took off in the direction of the burning helicopter.

  “That’s going to leave us one team short,” Hood said, moving closer.

  “No other choice. We’re sure as hell not leaving hostiles knocking at our backdoor.”

  “Understood.” Hood thought for a moment. “Perhaps you and I can remove the final filter.”

  Morant stared at him, and there was something in the man’s eyes that made Hood nervous.

  “That’s a good idea, General. We’ll do it together.”

  Several of the soldiers sounded off with a loud hoorah, and Morant and Hood both turned to see the huge West Tunnel door slowly swing open. Buckey peeked around from behind the blast door, smiled, and offered a slight bow. As other soldiers pulled the door the rest of the way open, Buckey stepped clear and slowly sank to the ground with his legs splayed out in front of him. One side of his pants was soaked in blood.

  Morant immediately motioned for a man with a medic bag to tend to his wound.

  As Buckey was being patched up, the Black Dogs quickly sorted into six teams of five, Alpha, Bravo, Charlie, Delta, Echo, and Foxtrot. The first five teams each carried a detailed map showing the locations of all of the bunker’s NBC filters. That way, if one team proved unable to complete their mission, another team could step in as a replacement. Three of the teams would make their way down to the lower level, removing filters from the Senate Leadership Room, the record vault, and a large dormitory. The other two teams would stay on the upper level, targeting filters in the power plant and medical facility. Hood and Morant were now on the hook to remove the filter in the cafeteria, which was also on the first floor.

  The Foxtrot team had a very different mission. They carried with them three sealed metal canisters containing the sarin gas. Their job was to navigate to the bunker’s power plant, open the ventilation system, and await further instructions. Once they received the okay, they would don full protective gear, deploy the gas, and exit through the West Tunnel Entrance.

  “Remember,” warned Morant, “radio communications may have been compromised. Assume the enemy is listening, and make contact only when absolutely necessary.”

  The teams acknowledged his warning, but like thoroughbreds cooped up in a racing stall for too long, they were ready to run.

  “What about me?” said Buckey. “I’m not sitting this one out.”

  Morant bent down and studied the man’s wound. It was a through and through, painful, but not debilitating now that it had been properly dressed.

  “You’ll come with me and the general.”

  “But there’ll be no room for horsing around,” warned Hood.

  Buckey scrambled to his feet and offered a Benny Hill salute using his trusty Hawk.

  “Aye-aye, General, sir.”

  Hood shook his head. “I suggest you get yourself a proper weapon, soldier.”

  “No need, General,” he said, wiping the Hawk on his pants. “I’ve just reloaded.”

  Squatting beneath a large window on the second floor of the clubhouse, the three cadets peeked out at the burning helicopter. Their impromptu attack had worked remarkably well, even though it was as much due to dumb luck as it was masterful planning. With the precision of an arrow fired from Artemis’s bow, the Mustang had careened across the fairway to strike one of the Chinook’s external fairings, i
gniting its thousand-gallon fuel tank. And that, as they say, was that. With nothing more than a brick on the gas pedal, they had managed to take out a thirty-million-dollar helicopter. Intense orange flames now spread through the cockpit, melting high-tech gauges and displays. The composite rotors had also begun to soften, slowly drooping toward the ground like the whiskers of a bat orchid.

  “Burn, baby, burn,” whispered Cobb.

  Rodriguez seemed equally as pumped.

  “That, Lieutenant, was brilliant.”

  Bell said nothing. She was too busy thinking about what needed to be done next. They had already achieved something significant. They had destroyed one of the troop transports and forced the second to relocate. Both took pieces off the chessboard. But there were now five soldiers surveying the burning helicopter. It was one thing to see soldiers on a battlefield. It was quite another to know that they were hunting for you.

  She looked at Cobb and Rodriguez.

  “It’s going to get harder now, more dangerous. They’ll be looking for us, both from the air and on the ground.”

  Cobb turned to her. “Is there any way to shoot down one of the gunships? Now that would be cool.”

  Rodriguez elbowed him. “With what? You got a rocket launcher on you? Other than that tiny one in your pants, I mean.”

  Cobb shoved him, and they began to argue.

  “Knock it off,” barked Bell, and surprisingly, both men quieted.

  “What do you propose, Lieutenant?” said Rodriguez. “We can’t go head to head with those soldiers.”

  “Not with five, no. But what if we separated them?”

  “If we could get them down to two, we could probably snipe them at a distance.”

  She looked over at him. “Why two? There are three of us.”

  “True, but Cobb couldn’t hit an elephant taking a dump at twenty yards.”

  “Screw you. I’m at least as good a shot as you.”

  “In your wettest dreams.”

  They started to fight again, and Bell had to raise her voice.

  “Enough! You two can settle your differences later. Right now, we need to figure out a way to peel off a couple of soldiers.”

  They all rose back up to the window and were surprised to see a lone man standing on the opposite side of the fairway. He stood dumbfounded, staring at the burning helicopter like it was a religious effigy. He had no weapons, only a shiny silver trophy clutched in both hands.

  The soldiers were already moving toward him with weapons raised.

  “That’s Ashby,” said Cobb.

  “Damn fool’s going to get himself shot,” added Rodriguez.

  They watched as Ashby started to retreat, only to be caught and surrounded by the Black Dogs. One of the soldiers began to question him, pointing an accusatory finger back toward the helicopter. Ashby shook his head, denying any involvement in the attack.

  “They think he did it,” Cobb said, rubbing his brow.

  “No, probably not,” said Bell. “But that doesn’t mean they’ll let him live. He’s already seen too much.”

  “We need to do something.”

  No one said anything.

  He looked to Bell and Rodriguez.

  “Come on. We can’t let that old guy get shot for something we did.”

  “We didn’t ask him to walk out there,” said Rodriguez. But even he didn’t sound convinced of his words.

  “Screw it,” Cobb said, standing up. “I’m not gonna sit here and watch that happen.”

  Rodriguez grabbed his arm. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “To the roof to snipe the hell out of them.”

  Bell said, “If you draw attention to this clubhouse, you’ll get us all killed.”

  “Well, I don’t have time to find another place. So, if you’re worried about your skins, sneak out the back. I’m going up top to save that old man’s life.”

  Bell looked to Rodriguez, both of them weighing their options. To engage the soldiers seemed like suicide. But Cobb was right. They couldn’t let Ashby be shot as the sacrificial lamb.

  Lieutenant Bell stood up. “All I have to say is that you two had better not miss.”

  Alpha team was the first group of soldiers to enter the West Tunnel Entrance. The long concrete corridor was dim, but the occasional overhead light made the use of night vision optics unnecessary. They shuffled ahead, Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine guns glued to their shoulders. When they got to the far end, they gave the “all clear,” and Bravo team pushed in behind them.

  JJ, the leader of Alpha team, kept his men moving, constantly scanning the corridors as they made their way deeper. They spotted a spray of blood on the wall and drag marks leading under a metal-clad door. JJ nodded, and his men quickly breached the door, one working the handle while two others quickly rushed through. Inside, they discovered the body of an elderly doctor lying face down in a narrow hallway—Buckey’s kill. Bloody footprints led away a short distance before becoming too faint to see.

  “Stay alert,” JJ said, a reminder more to himself than to his men.

  They continued down the short hallway and through yet another door, finally entering the power plant. The hum of diesel generators vibrated the metal grating under their feet. It was impossible to hear, so they used hand signals to coordinate their careful advance.

  As they rounded a long row of operator panels, JJ and his team were surprised to find the body of one of their comrades. He lay face down against the bottom of an electrical box, but his long blonde hair left little doubt about who it was.

  “It’s Krispy,” one of the men said, nearly shouting to be heard.

  Some claimed that Krispy had picked up the nickname because of his affinity for glazed donuts. Others said it was because he had once carried an M9 flame thrower on a mission to ferret out Taliban rebels. Either way, he was a close friend to many and a comrade to all.

  Another man pointed to a bloody smudge on the spiral staircase that led up to the blast door.

  “Poor bastard must have managed to squeeze through the vent before crawling his way down here.”

  JJ stepped forward and rolled Krispy over to check his vitals. The other men instinctively closed in around him. It took less than half a second for JJ to spot the wire trailing along the edge of the electrical cabinet and out through the opposite door. Unfortunately, half a second wasn’t fast enough to stop what happened next.

  The Claymore taped to Krispy’s chest exploded, blasting hundreds of ball bearings to every corner of the room. Even the furthest man was only ten yards away—not nearly far enough. The tiny steel pellets ripped through the men, sending blood, strips of flesh, and chips of bone all the way back to the West Tunnel.

  Chapter 16

  Mason knelt beside General Carr and Bowie, watching as the Claymore decimated the small team of soldiers. It was as horrific as it was satisfying. Five men down with the simple click of a switch. Dragging the dead soldier in through the ventilation blast door and strapping a mine to his chest had surely been a violation of the Geneva Conventions, but he doubted that anyone would be filing a complaint at The Hague anytime soon.

  As soon as the explosion sounded, Mason, Carr, and Bowie hurried into the room. Two of the Black Dogs moaned in agony, blood leaking from their wounds. They were hard men determined to hang onto life for a little longer, no matter the pain they had to endure.

  Mason immediately set about removing the men’s body armor. The surfaces of the Improved Outer Tactical Vests were peppered with BB-sized holes, but the ESAPI plates remained intact. Opting for agility over protection, the Black Dog’s IOTVs weren’t equipped with side components or groin protectors. Those exclusions kept the weight down to a manageable twenty pounds, but limited their protection. In the end, it wouldn’t have mattered anyway. No body armor could have saved them from the destructive forces of a Claymore mine at close range.

  For his part, Carr surveyed what remained of the men’s weapons. Most were damaged, with broken butts
tocks and splintered handguards. The best one he could find had a few dents in the magazine well and a twisted front sight but otherwise remained usable.

  He slipped the sling over his head and looked down at the dying soldier.

  “I’m sorry, son. I wish it didn’t have to be like this. I can at least ease your suffering.” He raised his pistol and took aim at the man’s head.

  “Leave him, General,” said Mason.

  “Look at the poor bastard. He’ll be dead inside of an hour anyway. The least we can do is show a little mercy and send him on his way.”

  “We don’t have the luxury of mercy today. Killing a soldier takes one man off the battlefield. Leaving him for others to care for takes two.”

  Carr holstered his pistol. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re one cold sonofabitch?”

  Mason stepped around the growing pools of blood and picked up a spare radio.

  “More times than I can count.” Using his foot, he slid two of the protective vests over to Carr. “Put one on, and carry the other back to the team.”

  While Carr donned the body armor, Bowie wandered the room sniffing the men and their gear. Mason caught the dog looking back at him, as if seeking some kind of explanation.

  “They’re our enemies,” he explained.

  Bowie tilted his head, still confused, but Mason said no more, instead turning his attention to searching the men. When he stood back up, he was holding a laminated map of the bunker. There were six seemingly random locations circled in red ink. He refolded the map and stuffed it into the front pocket of his vest.

  The faint thudding of boots sounded from out in the hallway.

  Mason quickly slipped the remaining tactical vests over his head and started for the opposite door.

  “Time to go, General.”

  Burdened by the weight of the extra armor, he and General Carr lumbered down a short hallway, through another door, and across a large dining area before coming to a stop. Bowie ran alongside them, woofing excitedly.

  “They’ll be cautious from here forward,” Carr said, squatting down behind an overturned table.

  “Which is exactly what we were trying to achieve.”