The End Time Saga (Book 2): The Breaking

by Daniel Greene

  He grabbed her elbow. “Slow down. It’s not safe.” She shook her arm free from him and ran for the shed. She pushed the door open.

  “Lindsay? Lucia?” she said softly. They stood in the back against the wall.

  “It’s okay, it’s me, Gwen,” she said. Mark’s rifle banged with quick shots. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up straight. Something wasn’t right.

  A fist blurred into her eye. Gwen fell to the damp earthen floor, and cold hands seized her throat, squeezing the air from her. Panicked, she grabbed for anything. She found her assailant’s hair and yanked to the side. The woman yelled out in pain, giving Gwen the opportunity to roll over on top.

  “You bitch. You ruined everything,” Ashley spat in her face.

  “Screw you. You whore,” Gwen cursed and sent a quick fist to the center of Ashley’s face. Ashley’s head thudded off the ground. Gwen hit her again. It feels so good to punch this bitch. Her next fist split Ashley’s lip, her second cracked her nose, and before her third, someone pulled her off.

  “Let. Me. Go,” Gwen sputtered, swinging her arms at her captor. Lean muscled arms spun her around like a dance, and she came eye to eye with Mark’s dark blue eyes.

  “Gwen. Stop,” Mark said. He kissed her cheek. Tears rolled down Gwen’s face. Her eye smarted from where she had been hit. Her heart beat loudly in her chest. Mark was supposed to be dead. She beat his chest with empty fists.

  “You. You. Asshole,” she cried out. Mark brought her in tight.

  “You were gone. I saw you die. You. You were dead,” Gwen mumbled into his chest. His clothes stunk like sweat and coppery blood. She rode an emotional roller coaster of pain and suffering. Her body melted in his arms, the only safe place in the world to be. Something dragged along the wall of the shed.

  Two women emerged from the shadows in filthy nightgowns. Mark released her. Gwen reached for them and wrapped her arms around the women. They cried quietly against her. Ashley propped herself up on the wall, hand nursing her jaw.

  “Don’t get any ideas, Ash. You’re going to pay,” Gwen scolded. Lucia murmured softly, “Maria.”

  “She’s gone,” Gwen whispered to Lucia, holding her tight.

  Ashley gave her a sullen look, and then a look of fear crossed her face when she recognized Mark for the first time. Recognition crossed his eyes and they narrowed.

  “Listen up bitch, I have no problem putting a bullet in you,” Mark growled. He grabbed the door handle and peered outside.

  “Fuck,” he cursed, slamming the shed door shut. He pulled out the mag from his carbine and hammered it back into the gun.

  “Ten rounds. Not enough to break through the pack coming this way. I’m open to suggestions,” Mark said. Seconds later, the slapping of hands and the calls of the dead filled the small shed. Mark put his back against the door. The latch jangled as infected pushed in on the rickety wooden door. Bloody dirty hands reached through the separation created as they forced it open.

  “I can’t. Hold this,” Mark strained.

  Gwen held the other women close, looking Mark in the eye. Mark nodded and tossed her his carbine. She snatched it out of the air.

  She thrust the gun into her shoulder. “Let them come.”

  STEELE

  Backbone Peak, WV

  Steele was losing his battle against the door. His feet slid, digging dirt from the floor out from under his clinging toes. Hands of the infected curled around the door. He roared and arched his back. The door slammed closed again with the snap, crackles and pops of broken limbs.

  “Gwen. Shoot quick, and run,” he said.

  Gwen nodded. Her lips were flat and grim.

  “One, two.” He took a deep breath. “Three.” Steele side-stepped and let the infected pour through the door. The first few fell to the ground. More infected clambered over bodies and Gwen fired shot after shot point blank into their faces. Blood and gore ejected from their bodies, as the AR-15 bellowed its battle song. When the carbine went dry, dull ringing replaced its war chant.

  Steele worked the infected from the side, using their frontward distraction to his advantage. He rammed his knife into the eye socket of an infected, and he pushed hard, shoving the lifeless body into two more infected. He front-kicked the remaining one in the doorway.

  “MOVE,” he screamed at the women.

  They bolted into the night. He stepped outside and immediately rolled his shoulders to dodge a bite from a woman using the walls of the shed as a prop. He back-stepped into the arms of a forest-green-clad West Virginia State Trooper. Steele grappled with the larger man, locking his arm around the trooper’s elbow and shoving his knife into the officer’s neck. The knife grated and Steele grunted as he forced the blade into his spine.

  The infected trooper slumped and Steele relieved him of his S&W 4566 .45 caliber side arm and eight-round magazines, feeling the weight of the large pistol in his hand. From his training, he knew that they were double action firearms and had no safety. Only more pressure poundage on the trigger prevented the shooter from firing the gun.

  The women were out ahead of him now and Steele had to play catch up. More infected came for them in a disorganized manner. Lindsay screamed as she was tripped up by a crawling infected. Gwen spun around, a wall of dead closing behind her. Their victim was separated from the pack. Arm in arm with Lucia, Gwen turned and ran, Ashley a few steps behind.

  “Help,” Lindsay called out, kicking at the infected hands. Steele was the only one close now.

  Steele racked a round into the chamber and ran to her aid. He shot the crawler in the head and fired rounds into the encroaching others. He stooped down next to her.

  “Let me see,” he said. Her hands shook as blood seeped through her fingertips. She sniffled and tears trickled down her cheeks in streaks. The skinny brunette sobbed openly. She is no more than a girl. Her collarbones sat exposed above her soiled nightgown, arms thin from mistreatment.

  “Please help me,” she cried. Every single ounce of him wanted to help her. His mind fought his gut instinct, knowing she would die and turn into one of them. Tiny microbes in her body were already mutating destroying her insides and converting her into one of the infected. Gwen and Lucia ran for the mobile lounge, a parade of infected trailing behind them.

  “We have to go,” Steele said. His eyes said more than his words.

  “I’m okay, I swear,” Lindsay sobbed. She released the pressure from her ankle, and the blood flowed forth from the hole. He hauled her upright, her body the weight of a child.

  They wobbled ten feet and she screamed out in pain, forcing him to set her down again. He stared into her watery brown eyes. She knew. He knew.

  “I’m sorry. I have to go,” he said, scanning the area around them. We are very much out in the open. No one survived the bite.

  She pleaded with her eyes for life.

  “I can’t take you with us. You’ll turn,” he said.

  “But you just rescued us. Now you’re going to leave me.”

  I wanted to help you, but now, I can’t.

  “I can’t save you.” His mouth formed a determined half-frown. Steele aimed his gun at the top of her skull, point blank. Her brown hair was tangled, and she was filthy, roughly fifteen pounds lighter than when they had first met. She had been through a hell that most people would have given up on long ago. A mix of fear and pain clouded her eyes. The milkiness of her eyes had begun to settle in, still the doe eyes of the innocent. She blinked rapidly, almost as if she batted her eyelashes at him, but it was the fear of the bullet. You must carry out this sentence. You did not condemn her, but you must show her mercy.

  Steele let his finger slowly compress the trigger till the sound of the blast echoed through his ears. Lindsay’s body slumped down in a pile like a small rag doll left behind by a child.

  He had killed someone he considered a friend. Not only killed but literally blew her brains out. It was mercy. A mercy killing.

  Steele spit the bad taste from
his mouth.

  He sprinted through trees. Branches whipped his skin, stinging his flesh.

  “Gwen,” he yelled hoarsely. Only the dead turned his way. He fled before them. He kept running until he came to a clearing.

  “Over here,” Gwen called out from behind a tree. He met her and tiny Lucia behind cover. Ashley lurked near them but not with them. A wall of bone, flesh, and virus formed between them and the mobile lounge. The dead searched for more victims unknowingly claiming victory over the moonshiner camp. Steele knelt down, catching his breath, his chest burning like fire from fighting.

  “There are more following me,” he said to them. Gwen looked back. The people mover sat idling, lights flashing in the night. It was impossible for Mauser to know where they would pop out. Once he started shooting, both the dead and Mauser would know they were close.

  “Try and get Mauser’s attention,” Steele said. When the dead get within ten yards, I will start shooting. He started his methodical shooting. Boom. He dropped a woman in a denim outfit. Boom. He dropped a man in overalls missing most of his face. The ladies shouted at the mobile lounge, waving their hands and trying to get Mauser’s attention.

  Round after round struck their target, but for every one he took down it seemed like two more took their place. Click. The hammer slammed home and nothing happened. Time to go on hands on.

  “Gwen, would you mind handing me the carbine?” he said to her. Gwen was here and his favorite carbine was in his hands. Just the way he remembered them only a lot more dirty.

  His heart sank as the dead made for them. There are too many. We are going to die.

  The rumble of the giant diesel engine gave him hope. Lights flickered as it barreled forward, but not far enough. It rolled to a stop on the edge of the hill, waiting for them, and gunfire cracked from its windows.

  “We’ve got to run to him,” Steele shouted. His eyes met Gwen’s. “Whatever happens, keep moving.”

  Steele faced the enemy and charged, not waiting for the women. Hopefully, the dead will all converge on me. He swung his way through the pack of undead, wielding his rifle like Davy Crockett at the Alamo. Mark Steele, King of the Fucking Dead Frontier. Sultan of Swat.

  With some help from Mauser shooting out the window they made it to the airport mobile lounge. They ran as fast as they could. It was a dodging contest all the way to the people mover’s tires.

  Steele hoisted up Lucia and then Gwen. Ashley followed them. She either came with them or died. Did she deserve to die? Yes.

  Steele snarled at the trashy blonde. His fingers dug into her shoulders and tears filled her eyes as she begged for mercy. He hated her. She had put his people through hell. She had put him through hell. Can I just let her die? Even the scum of the earth deserve judgment. Even the worst people deserve mercy. Can I live knowing I fed someone to these monsters?

  “Hurry up,” was all he could muster and he hoisted her up like a cheerleader by her hips. Mauser’s shaggy-haired face grinned down at Steele, followed by Kevin.

  “Give me your hand, you big tough son of a bitch,” Mauser said, shoving his hand at Steele.

  “Up ya go,” Kevin grunted. Steele locked forearms with his friends, a warrior’s embrace, forearm to forearm, and jumped up.

  As Mauser and Kevin pulled Steele up, he was surprised by a tight squeeze around his own waist. Heavy weight pulled him down and he slipped back inch by inch. Mauser’s grip strained, tightening on Steele’s arm. Steele’s head exploded with stars, the ground forcing the breath from his body.

  Steele covered his face as Puck’s huge fist slammed into the side of Steele’s head. Steele kept his arms in close to his head, trying to deflect the blows. The rain of punches was wild and slow, but dominating. If he connects, I’m done.

  Puck’s face had a dark ghostly delight as he struck downward. “You are the one,” he growled. “Thought we got rid of you.”

  He punched down into Steele’s elbow, causing pain to shoot into his shoulder.

  Steele was silent, using all his focus to keep a heavy blow from putting him out. He tried to thrust his hips upward to displace Puck’s weight, but Puck was a ton of rocks on his chest. Steele wrapped his arms around his bear-sized back, clinching in tight, but the man’s hand pushed Steele into the ground and wrapped around his neck, engulfing his throat. Gravel dug deep into the back of Steele’s skull. His ears beat as blood pounded in his veins. He danced around consciousness.

  “Steele,” people’s voices echoed around him.

  A figure staggered in from the side and jumped on Puck. Puck growled only long enough to remove a paw from Steele to shove the infected down. Steele struck his other arm with chops to the brachial nerve that ran along the shoulder into the neck. The grip loosened, and Steele scooted away from him as another infected crashed into Puck, and another. Steele coughed hysterically as oxygen entered his crushed throat. More freshly blooded infected pounced onto Puck.

  Steele jumped to his feet and ran for the mover. An infected lunged for him, bony fingers causing him to stumble. He kept his feet and jumped into Mauser’s waiting arms. The two friends collapsed on one another onto the mover floor.

  “I could kiss you, you big buffoon,” Steele said. One of Mauser’s cheeks was puffed up and the other was gaunt. He had the face of a prisoner.

  “Pucker up then,” Mauser said. Steele settled for helping his friend upright.

  “You used to be pretty,” Mauser said, inspecting Steele’s head wound. “But damn you are ugly now.”

  “I know.” He faced Gwen. “Are you okay?”

  Gwen held Lucia in a seat across from them and she nodded. Eddie sat, still shackled, his head in his hands. Kevin stood nearby.

  “Glad you made it here,” Steele said, reaching for Kevin’s hand.

  Kevin nodded furiously. “Me too.”

  Steele peered out the open doors of the mover at Puck’s demise. Infected pulled at him from every angle. It was like a pack of hounds bringing down a bear. Infected clung to him, tore at him, bit him and Puck howled as their teeth sank into his body. Steele snagged up his carbine. Mauser handed Steele a fresh mag. He slid it into place.

  Puck still fought madly, but now he bled from a dozen bite wounds on his body. He swung two infected together like he was banging two cymbals. Their heads smacked together, a mangled mess of bone and brain.

  Steele lined up his red dot sights on Puck’s forehead. The man swung wildly at the infected. There were just too many now and Puck sank to his knees. Infected took huge chunks from his arms and neck, his arms stretched out as if he were on a cross. Steele lowered the weapon and looked over his sights. Puck made eye contact with Steele, growling over the pain.

  “Kill meeee,” he screamed at Steele. Steele continued to look down at his enemy’s demise.

  “Kill him, Steele,” Kevin said from behind. He rested a hand on Steele’s back. “Please kill him, or hand me the gun,” he said softer. The pain in his voice cracked.

  Steele turned slightly to Kevin. Kevin had a pained expression on his face.

  “Kill me, now,” Puck called up, begging for mercy. A fat infected in a t-shirt joined the pile around Puck and took a massive bite from his scalp, ripping hair and flesh from his skull.

  “Shoot him, Steele,” Kevin’s voice rose in anger. “My brother deserves to die better than this.”

  Blood meandered down Puck’s face, his body shaking as the virus attacked his blood. Steele lined up the tiny red dot sight near the center of his broad head and pulled the trigger. Mercy or justice, I bear them both for they mean death, and death I wield with a heavy hand.

  KINNICK

  Pentagon, Arlington, VA

  Kinnick straightened the collar of his neutral-colored Army Combat Uniform. Bland greens, slate grays, and sand tans stretched over his torso, having been designed for urban, woodland, and desert combat situations. A universal pattern they call it. Better than the Airman Battle Dress uniform from the early 2000s. He laughed to himself. As
long as it doesn’t snow.

  His uniform was on loan from the Department of Defense. It was unlikely that they would ever get this uniform back. He looked at himself in the mirror. His eyes had dark circles surrounding them. He looked like the walking dead, or the dead walking. Smear some blood on me and I could be them. He smiled grimly, straightening his shirt. No choice but to carry on, good soldier. He checked his watch. Dawn was breaking and his team should already be prepping. It was time.

  He ran a hand over his thigh-holstered Beretta 9mm. Hefting his pack, he walked down a corridor following a red line along the floor. Two heavy blast doors easily pushed open with their advanced hydraulic system and he stepped into the Pentagon courtyard.

  Soldiers scurried back and forth, preparing for his team’s departure. Two Sikorsky UH-60 Black Hawk helicopters sat perched in the center of the courtyard, like a noble pair of griffins resting. A small contingent of men who had flown in early that morning attended them. A minor testament to the remaining American military might. It was the best General Travis had left at his disposal.

  A greasy brown-bearded man swaggered over to where Kinnick surveyed the courtyard. He spit a wad of tobacco on the ground, running a hand over his long loose hair and pulling it to the back of his head.

  “You must be the full bird I’ve been waiting on, sir?” he said, referring to the nickname for Kinnick’s rank. He saluted Kinnick with a crisp hand, and Kinnick returned his salute.

  “That is correct, Master Sergeant. I am retired Colonel Kinnick United States Air Force, your CO for this operation.”

  “Pleased to meet you, sir. I am your 18Zed, Master Sergeant Hunter. ODA 51 ‘The Skins’ Detachment, Alpha Company, 3rd Battalion, 7th Special Forces Group.”

  The Green Beret looked like he hadn’t shaved in years, and the parts that a razor touched hadn’t been gone over in weeks. On his sleeve, he wore a patch of a skull wearing a wolf headdress with the numbers 51 along the bottom and “Skins” across the top. Hunter eyed him for a moment and shifted the chew in his mouth to the other cheek.