These guys were never out of the fight, either.
Homer rolled his hog-tied body up on top of Mike B, his back and shoulders on the other man’s chest. Then, with his cuffed hands behind him, he pulled free the sheath knife from the man’s vest rig. He shoved his legs, pushing his body upward, and he put the knife into the wounded man’s throat. Then he reversed it into an overhand grip and sawed through his wrist cuffs – just as he saw Jimmy push himself up on one elbow, four feet away, and pull his side arm clear, with blood-dripping, trembling fingers.
Homer launched himself forward, knocking the gun aside, getting inside its range. And he killed Jimmy, too, right where he lay, also with the knife to his throat.
Shaking his head, trying to breathe, Homer looked down at his dust-covered boots, and got the blade stuck between the flex-cuffs there, sawing until they came free. Finally, shaking, he climbed to his feet and turned around.
Just in time to get tackled at the waist by Odin.
Who had been smart enough to find hard cover.
And just like that he had Homer back down on the ground on his back, mounted, Odin’s big body pinning him to the floor, hardwood thighs around his waist, his muscled steam-hammer arms pounding in and down at the sides of Homer’s head, swinging up and out, bashing over and over again.
Homer tucked up, bending his elbows, getting his forearms and hands up to protect his head, absorbing the hammer blows, or most of them. And he realized:
This was not a CQD scenario. Odin didn’t want to restrain him. He didn’t even want to kill him.
What he wanted was to hurt him.
He used his superior weight and power to do so, furious, glaring down, shockingly fast for a big man, not to mention one who’d just survived a suicide bombing.
Homer knew he was in a bad position. He could still feel his system reeling from the after-effects of not just the explosion, but also the ADS. He knew those were supposed to wear off quickly, or even instantly. Then again, they’d probably never turned the damned thing up that high.
But as he got his senses back and assessed, he became aware of why he’d intuitively sensed Odin wanted to hurt and not kill him: his sidearm was still on his belt. Timing it between Odin’s right-hand blows, he snatched it free of leather with his left hand. But before he could get it into a shooting grip, Odin walloped both gun and hand with his balled left fist, sending the weapon hurtling across the room, then sliding through debris on the floor.
Crap.
As Homer covered up again, and continued to get pummeled, he stole a couple of quick looks around him for something else to whack, smash, or stab Odin with, to get the big man off him. But, of course, there wasn’t anything, just a lot blood and debris. This wasn’t Hollywood. This was his life.
And Homer was going to have to get himself out.
Luckily, there are a lot of techniques for escaping a mount position, and Homer knew all of them – he just had to find the strength to execute one. He twisted and bucked his hips, trying to get a hip bone into Odin’s groin. This threw the big man slightly off balance. Kicking Odin’s bent right leg farther out to the right got him more so. Then Homer dug down, sucked wind, braced himself – and reached for Odin’s next right-hand punch, seizing his forearm with both hands. Yanking with his full strength, he pulled Odin’s shoulder down into the ground.
Using that momentum, he rolled Odin over, got on top of him, hit him with a two-hand shove to create space, and finally rolled away and bounced to his feet.
By the time he did, Odin was also back up.
The two circled like cage-fighters, or stags butting antlers in a lethal dominance contest, neither daring to look away – but both also needing to scan the area for weapons. But the area had been devastated by the blast, all the tables knocked over – and wherever Homer’s weapons had ended up, he couldn’t see them. But, stealing a look over his shoulder, he saw a tiny glinting patch beneath all the debris and rubble on the floor behind him…
But that lapse of attention was too much. Before Homer could react, Odin snatched another bladed weapon off the wall and slung the sheath off, firing the steel casing at Homer, who blocked it with a raised forearm, which stung like hell.
He backed off as Odin advanced, knife up.
Grinning, Odin said, “But, you know what, by the end, I actually got sick of fucking your wife. So I finally just put her outside the walls – to let the dead have some fun with her.” Homer had already worked out what happened to Ellie. And he knew exactly what Odin was doing right now – trying to provoke him into a rage, a huge mistake in a lethal fight.
Homer took another step back. Then another.
Odin advanced, knife held in close, left hand out.
Homer retreated one more step. Then he leaned down in a flash and scooped up Odin’s .45 from where it had landed, and where he had spotted it, bringing it up in a blur and snap-firing at Odin’s eye.
Nothing happened.
He had squeezed the trigger – but it didn’t go bang.
Dammit.
He tilted the weapon to the side to check it, brushed the manual safety upward with his thumb, then brought it back online, triggering off two shots as Odin charged, bellowing. The two rounds caught him low and wide, in either collar bone, and instantly Homer had to block a knife strike with the pistol barrel, both of them tumbling over, Homer once again on the ground on his back, pinned. As he tried to bring the weapon up to shoot Odin in the side of the head, the man bashed his gun hand with the knife pommel, hard, once again sending it rocketing and skittering across the room.
Both hands unexpectedly free now, Homer seized Odin’s knife hand with both of his and rammed the pommel into the bridge of his nose with his full force. This stunned Odin enough for Homer to twist the knife loose, reverse it, roll him onto his back, climb on top – and stab the blade down toward Odin’s face.
But before he could ram it home, Odin got both hands wrapped around both of his and the point of the knife froze, trembling in tension an inch from Odin’s single remaining eyeball.
And there the two men lay, bodies pressed together, faces inches away, frozen in lethal opposition, each struggling against the other. The difference this time was Odin had just been shot twice, so Homer knew the man’s strength in this moment was as great as it was going to be. Probably ever again.
For the first time, time was on Homer’s side.
But for the moment, he still couldn’t push the blade home. He put his full weight into it, but still Odin resisted. And he actually grinned again. Homer could see every contour and ridge of the melted half of his face. When he spoke, Homer could smell his breath. “Hey, you can kill me, brother. But what’s the point?”
Homer threw his weight into the blade.
Still Odin managed to resist. Smile melting away, he said, “Hey. Don’t you want to know how your wife died?”
Homer kept his grip on the blade, and kept his weight pressing down on it – but stopped heaving forward. He looked into Odin’s eye.
All the warlord’s insouciant humor was gone now, his voice quiet, almost compassionate. It was as if both of them sensed some kind of solemnity, or even holiness, to this moment. “She wanted to go out and talk to the survivor families. So I sent her, along with an escort. Only the escort came back.”
Homer threw his weight into the knife again.
Still Odin held it at bay.
Homer glared and said, “So your men did it. Not the dead.”
“Yeah. Two to the base of the skull. She never knew anything. And she’s not coming back.”
Homer’s expression went serene, the tension bleeding away. But he gathered his full weight and strength, towering over Odin like an ocean storm wave about to break.
“Neither are you,” he said. “And you’re not king anymore.”
He rammed the blade straight through Odin’s eye.
And an inch into the floor below.
* * *
When Homer staggered o
ut the door of the throne room, shrapnel-peppered Daniel Defense rifle clipped back on…
The hall outside was lined with team guys.
They must have heard the explosion. And they could have come in at any time. But they hadn’t.
Now, parting like the Red Sea for Homer to pass through, silent, reverential, all of them just nodded as he went by.
Homer merely nodded back.
These were his brothers. And they were free now.
But he was really tired.
He just kept walking, down toward the staging area.
Home
Sarah looked down at the two precious heads in her arms.
And then she looked up again at the heaving barricade behind the door. It seemed like the whole structure was shaking around them now. The very pier beneath them bounced. They were trapped in the eye of their own personal storm of the dead.
Finally, she looked down at the silenced pistol in her lap.
The boy and girl would never know anything. And they wouldn’t die in horror, eaten alive by ravening undead monstrosities. Mainly, they’d never come back. And if Homer was right in his beliefs, they would ascend directly to heaven, and rejoin their mother.
For just one second, it seemed like a good option.
Or the only one left.
But then the madness passed. NO. Sarah couldn’t do it. She could never do that. Not as long as she had rounds for her weapons, and breath in her lungs. As long as she was still on her feet. Even beyond that. She couldn’t give up. She couldn’t fail Homer. And she could at least die fighting.
Buying them every second she could.
She got Ben and Isabel huddled down under the most solid cover she could find, which hadn’t already gone into the barricade. She tried to reassure them as well as she could. Then she climbed to her feet, holstered her pistol, and hefted her rifle.
And she got back into the fight.
She put her shoulder and full weight into the bouncing barricade, bracing her boots on the wooden floor behind her, figuring she’d physically hold it as long as she could.
After that, she’d start shooting.
And she’d keep her body between the dead and those kids.
But then she startled, as she felt movement against her leg.
It was Benjamin. He’d climbed out from his place of cover. And he now stood beside her, albeit standing only four feet tall. And he put his own weight into the barricade along with hers. All 50 pounds of it.
Sarah shook her head. He was his father’s son. He was probably about to die. But he was also going to die on his feet. And he would go down protecting his little sister.
The barricade, and the door behind it, gave a heave that almost knocked them both down. But they rallied and put their shoulders back into it. Sarah figured the next wave would take the barricade down, and throw the door open.
Then it would be down to her, and her rifle.
Then her pistol. Then bare hands.
After that… she didn’t want to think about what came next.
But then – that next heave didn’t come.
To Sarah’s bafflement, rather than continuing to ramp up, the shoving began to fall off. She took some of her weight off the barricade, while keeping her hands on it, straining to hear what was happening beyond it, outside. She stole a look down at Ben, who was also looking up at her, eyes wide and shining.
And then she heard something beneath the moaning. It was quiet chugging. Regular, evenly spaced. Whispers.
And then… the heaving stopped entirely.
There was only silence. Complete, deep, eerie silence.
And then the door knocked. Quietly. Three times.
Sarah felt beyond disbelief at this point. But she sure knew who that was. She tore down the barricade and pulled open the door. Behind it stood Homer, helmet on, NVGs down, rifle held close and diagonal across his body. All around him on the pier lay piles of destroyed undead bodies.
He flipped the NVGs up and nodded.
Sarah just shook her head.
The gentleman caller returns.
* * *
“How in God’s name did you find us?”
She was having to say this to Homer’s back, because he was squatting down in the corner, helmet off, enveloping his children in his arms. Picking Isabel up and turning back to her, he tapped the head of the Paddington Bear, which Sarah had never once seen Isabel put down. “The tracker. Sewed it in there.”
“Son of a bitch,” Sarah said. She looked at the girl. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay. And it’s me who’s sorry.” Homer picked up his helmet, still holding Isabel with one arm. “Because I decided she was more important to keep track of than you.”
“Jesus, of course she is,” Sarah said, taking a hand off her rifle to push Ben toward the door. “Don’t even worry about it.”
When she peeked outside, the area was kind of miraculously still clear. Homer had seriously cleaned house. Best of all, parked in the sand at the foot of the pier was…
Their new Ford Expedition. Intact windshield and all.
The four of them got in the damned car.
* * *
“I lost the stealth boat,” Sarah said.
“Yeah, I kind of worked that out,” Homer said. He was driving, with NVGs – at least they’d learned that lesson – while Sarah rode shotgun, both kids belted into the back seats. “But don’t worry about that, either. Plan A was always better anyway.”
Sarah monitored the darkness, the road, and the treelines on either side, as well as she could without night vision. But so far the road had been clear – of dead, of living wolf-men, even mostly of abandoned cars.
So far, their escape was proving undramatic.
“So,” she said. “Airport, then?”
Homer nodded. “Chesapeake Regional. Another twenty minutes max.”
But it proved to be less than that. Their last stretch was down a narrow two-laner with low forest to either side. They passed a couple of nondescript buildings, then took a left, passing a sign for the airport. The forest disappeared to their right, opening up into flat open space, as they curved around its left side. When they approached the airport on the right, Sarah could see it was surrounded by intact fencing.
And when they reached the gate, it was securely locked.
Homer climbed out, picked the lock, then climbed back in.
“The team used this airport?” Sarah asked.
“SEALs like small planes. And they’d still be useful now.”
Homer took them down a dark access road to a section of shadowy hangars, pulling up in front of one in particular. Sarah climbed out to pull security, but saw nothing moving in the dark. Whatever else, SEAL Six knew how to keep a place secure.
While she watched the kids, Homer picked another lock and disappeared inside the hangar. Four minutes later, the big front roll-up doors rattled upward. Taking her cue, Sarah got the kids out of the truck and around front – just in time to hear a propeller engine start up.
And then a small plane rolled out onto the tarmac.
It was a sleek single-engine civilian aircraft, a Beechcraft Sarah figured, maybe big enough for four or five passengers. Staying clear of the spinning propeller in front, she hustled the kids toward the rear double doors and got them inside. Even as she strapped them in, the plane began to turn and taxi.
By the time she squirmed up in front with Homer…
They were accelerating powerfully down the runway. The engine on this thing wasn’t huge, but the airframe was light. She guessed they’d be off the ground in seconds. She tried to look out behind them, down the runway, back to the gates. But they weren’t being chased by hordes of the dead. They weren’t being shot at by evil Tier-1 naval special operators.
They were just taking off, unmolested.
Up and away and into the peaceful nighttime sky.
Free at last, they banked and turned east.
Out toward the sea.
; * * *
“You lost the boat,” Homer said. “But I lost your Glock.”
They’d been flying through the dark, 1,000 feet above the ocean surface, for about four hours, Homer with his NVGs down, but flipping them up periodically to check the instruments and navigation. There were such things as NVG-capable cockpits. But this wasn’t one of them.
Sarah said, “Don’t worry about that, either. It was too hard to find ammo for anyway.”
“We’ll get you a nice 9mm Beretta on the carrier. Stopping power’s not so important against the dead.”
“Oh, yeah? I’m not so sure. Because I’ve got a bad feeling this won’t be the last time we find ourselves fighting the living.”
Homer sighed. “Maybe. But we can hope.”
Sarah squeezed his arm. “Or at least have faith.”
She gave him his SIG back.
* * *
They flew in silence for another two hours or so, Sarah wasn’t sure, as she kept drifting off and startling awake again. She only realized the sun was coming up directly ahead of them, east out over the Atlantic, when Homer pulled his helmet off and put it between the crew seats and passenger seats behind them.
He kept his head stuck back there for another 15 seconds, the plane obviously on autopilot, checking on the kids.
Both were still fast asleep. Peaceful. Safe.
“Hey, frogman,” Sarah said.
He twisted back around into the cockpit. “Yeah?”
“Tell me something. Who’d you take that suicide vest off of?”
Homer sighed. “Okay. I’ll tell you. If you do one thing for me.”
“Name it.”
“Of course, your conscience is between you and God. And your decisions are your own. But I’d be grateful if you didn’t tell anyone, on the carrier. Or at least don’t volunteer it.”
“Tell them what?”
“About what happened. Back there.”
“What, when you went back to the Annex without us? What the hell did happen there? Because I have no idea. I was hiding out in that boathouse, surrounded by the dead.”
Homer smiled. “Good enough. And thank you.”
Odyssey Page 32
