Timothy put a final round into the head, just to be sure. Then he turned to look in the direction Horn was firing.
Two collaborators ducked behind cars, trying to get close. When they made a move, Timothy took one of them down, and the second man dove for cover.
A spray of rounds from the M249 cut down another enemy rushing down the street for a new position. Timothy roved his scope over the body to see it was a human collaborator.
Scouts, probably.
Thoughts of his father, of his captivity in Mount Katahdin, and of the destruction of his former home in Maine flooded his mind.
He wanted to tear apart every last one of these evil men, but the wooden beads of the bracelet Tasha had given him bumped against his wrist, reminding him he had more to live for than revenge.
Even if he and Horn were better shots, the collaborators might already be sending people to surround them. The two of them couldn’t hold out forever. Most importantly, they had a bigger mission at stake.
“Cover me, and I’ll get the anthrax,” Timothy said.
Horn gave him a nod before unleashing a hail of bullets. Return fire speared into the cars as Timothy sprinted away. More bullets seared through the air past him. A couple sparked against the wet asphalt. He slid next to Boyd and hid behind the first Variant he had killed as rounds thumped into both corpses.
Timothy reached over and searched Boyd’s pockets for the syringe of anthrax. Boyd’s throat was torn open, and his eyes were locked open in a look of horror.
“I’m sorry,” Timothy said.
More bullets slammed into the Variant and Boyd, forcing Timothy to draw his hand back. He waited a moment then tried a new pocket and found the plastic syringe.
“Got it!” Timothy yelled.
He stashed it in his vest and drew himself up into a low firing position, providing cover fire for Horn. The big man raked the M249 back and forth, then took off running.
Shouts from the collaborators carried over the rain as Timothy retreated to the backyard of the closest house. Horn was huffing and puffing, but managed to keep running toward the golf course bordering the backyards. They didn’t slow until they found cover in a tree line, and even then, they pushed themselves forward, never completely stopping until they reached the edge of the webbing-covered tunnel.
Water ran over the sides and down into it, turning it into a muddy mess.
“I’ll cover you,” Horn heaved. He aimed back the way they had come.
The ground seemed to rumble, but this wasn’t thunder. The monsters in the tunnel were close.
With the anthrax in one hand, Timothy dropped to his belly, still gasping to catch his breath. He lay flat and stretched to reach one of the tendrils within the tunnel. With a jab, he got the needle into the throbbing red vine and depressed the plunger.
A howl erupted from deeper inside the tunnel. The stench of rotten fruits filled his lungs. His body shook as the walls trembled more fiercely. The click of joints and growls of bloodthirsty monsters echoed toward him.
“Hurry up,” Horn said.
Timothy backed out and began to stand, but Horn yanked him down in the cover of the tall grass.
“We got more company,” Horn said. “Collaborators caught up to us.”
“Can’t stay here. The Variants aren’t far behind.”
“I fucking hate running,” Horn said. He stood, ready to move. “Don’t leave me behind, kid. I still haven’t given you permission to date my daughter.”
Timothy almost laughed but a burst of gunfire made him flinch.
Another terrifying tremor rumbled the ground, the shaking more violent. Another spot of grass twenty yards to their west pushed upward.
A familiar, terrifying clicking shriek sounded from the newly formed hole as Timothy took off running with Horn. They both watched the ground burst upward in a geyser of wet soil and long grass. An Alpha pulled itself out, and Variants poured out after it.
“Faster!” Horn yelled.
Timothy had never run harder in his life. He pushed himself to his physical limit, his lungs burning with the effort. Horn was starting to fall behind. Timothy eased up and took a moment to look at their pursuers.
Monsters galloped over the wet ground, tearing through the grass, and gunfire flashed from the golf course.
“KEEP RUNNING!” Horn yelled.
Timothy took off again.
Images of Tasha flashed through his mind. She was waiting for him back in Galveston. If he didn’t make it back, he wouldn’t see her again. He wouldn’t be able to help her from the incoming army of monsters descending on their base.
And if he didn’t save her dad, they would both be screwed.
He skidded to a stop and aimed to take out the closest Variants, buying the big man some extra time.
The creatures bolted into the fire, not even trying to avoid the bullets.
Horn stopped to send a burst of rounds into the enemy’s ranks, taking down two of the lead beasts, but the Alpha never stopped.
“Come on!” Horn yelled.
They reached the street where they had left the Humvee, and Timothy spotted the truck. By the time they made it there, the Alpha was halfway down the street with a pack of Variants flocking around it.
Horn opened the driver’s door as Timothy dove into the back seat. He didn’t even have time to shut the door before Horn pushed down on the pedal. The vehicle lurched forward, but then jolted to a stop.
Timothy looked back to see the Alpha had grabbed the back bumper, water sluicing over its diseased flesh.
“Come on, baby!” Horn said.
The Humvee growled, tires squealing. Timothy pulled out his pistol and fired at the back windshield. Glass burst outward, and bullets punched into the meaty flesh. The Alpha held on until a couple rounds smashed through its snout.
The vehicle tore away, ripping out of the Alpha’s claws. The beast ran after them with the entourage of smaller monsters and the collaborators, bullets slamming against the back of the Humvee.
Horn navigated out of the neighborhood and onto the highway, leaving their pursuers behind, never letting up on the gas.
“Jesus Christ in Heaven,” Horn said. “We clear?”
“I think so,” Timothy said, still gasping. “So… does this mean I got your permission to date Tasha?”
“We’ll see,” Horn said.
Water fell in sheets over the windshield, the wipers swishing back and forth. Horn dodged past a wrecked vehicle, and Timothy climbed into the front passenger seat.
Horn picked up his radio. “Command, Recon Sigma One. We got the anthrax injected. Headed back to base now.”
“Copy that,” the comms officer replied. “Good work, Recon Sigma One. What’s your ETA?”
“Fifty minutes if we press it.”
“Better hurry up or you will be cut off,” the comms officer said.
“Copy,” Horn said. He slammed the radio down.
“Cut off?” Timothy asked.
“The bridge,” Horn said. “They’re going to blow it.”
“If they do, we’re stuck on this side of the bay with all those monsters.”
“My girls are on that island, Temper. You sure as shit know I am not letting us stay on this side of the bay while those beasts try to take Galveston.”
Timothy checked to make sure his belt was secure.
“Yeah, better hold onto your ass, kid, because tonight, this mountain is a fucking volcano, and I’ll fly this fucking Humvee if I have to,” Horn said.
— 24 —
Ringgold stood on the ten-yard-wide watchtower platform atop the roof of the Harbor House Hotel in Galveston. Beside her stood Cornelius, Souza, and Soprano.
She had insisted on being outside the confines of her bunker to stand side-by-side with the troops sworn to protect this country.
As a concession, Festa was inside the hotel, coordinating with a team of military officers and the representatives from Canada and Mexico. Festa would serve as the des
ignated survivor, taking control of the defenses in a secure underground headquarters should something happen to Ringgold.
In the middle of the platform, two armed communications officers had laptops and radios set up on a table behind a steel enclosure. Three snipers were situated in nearby watchtowers and two-person teams manned M240s set up behind sandbags on the catwalks above the steel walls.
A reinforced steel roof protected them from the light drizzle of rain. The fog had mostly lifted, and the storm was retreating, providing sightlines to both the I-45 bridge and the Gulf of Mexico. They had lost radar in the bat attack, rendering them otherwise blind. To watch for the First Fleet, Souza had deployed two 25-foot Coast Guard Response Boats.
For the first time in her career serving her country, she carried an M4A1. She had spent every spare minute training with the weapon.
She was not the only one holding a weapon like this in combat for the first time.
Their defenses were filled with individuals who had been drafted days ago. Refugees and even the injured stood on the walls. Soprano was armed with a shotgun that he carried awkwardly. Ringgold wondered if he was more of a threat with it, than without.
“The Variants are closing in,” Cornelius reported. “ETA forty-five minutes.”
“How far is Recon Sigma?” Ringgold asked.
“They’re expected to arrive around the same time.”
“That’s cutting it too close.”
“We’ll have to blow the bridge before the monsters arrive, whether they’re here or not.”
Ringgold could not imagine giving an order that would condemn some of her closest friends to almost certain death, but decisions like this were part of the burden she faced as president.
“Delay blowing the bridge as long as possible,” she said. “But I would like—”
“Madam President, I’m sorry to interrupt,” Souza said. “I just heard from Festa. The First Fleet was reported just under twenty klicks out by one of our Response Boats.”
Ringgold let her rifle fall on its strap and picked up her binoculars. She looked toward the east. Sheets of rain blocked any chance of seeing the distant fleet emerge over the horizon.
“How many ships?” she asked.
“Without radar, hard to say, but the scout reported seeing the USS George Johnson and three other First Fleet ships. They were preparing to launch dozens of smaller boats filled with collaborators, Variants, and Chimeras.”
“They’re preparing for a full-on beach invasion,” Cornelius said.
“Begin our aerial attack,” Ringgold said.
The general relayed the order, and moments later, the first few jets took off from the runway to their south. Other planes followed, military and slower civilian craft flying off with what little ordnance they had left.
A distant flash of lightning cut through the sky. The minutes ticked by as the planes flew through the clearing storm toward the enemy fleet.
The increasingly heavy thrum of her pulse sounded like war drums in her ears at the thought of what they would soon face. The USS George Johnson had been equipped with the best anti-aircraft weaponry the Allied States had left. She could only hope that the New Gods did not know how to operate such advanced equipment.
Unfortunately, she had also witnessed what had happened when the Allied States underestimated their enemy. Even if a fraction of their forces knew how to use the weapons, the ships could prove devastating to their forces.
“Our squadrons are almost in position,” Souza said.
A few moments later, one of the pilots came over the radio. “Command, Eagle One. Approaching targets.”
Ringgold could almost picture the ships cutting through the dark waves that the pilot must be seeing.
“Commencing bombing,” said Eagle One. “We are—”
The line suddenly went dead.
Souza stepped closer to the radio operator. “The hell just happened?”
The operator shook his head. “I think they were shot, sir.”
Distant flashes of light strobed through the gray clouds over the horizon, like more lightning strikes behind the clouds. But there were far too many blasts for it to be from the storm.
“We’re going down!” another voice cried over the channel.
“Command, we’re taking heavy fire!”
“Engine failure! They hit—”
“I can’t hold out!”
“All systems are failing! Target is still—”
More explosions bloomed across the gray horizon. Frantic voices filled the lines.
Souza picked up the radio. “All pilots, this is Command. Concentrate all weapons on the USS General Johnson. You can’t let it get through.”
“Command, Eagle Three,” a pilot said. “We’ve lost contact with a third of our units.”
Souza turned away from the radio, his jaw clenched, fingers curled into a fist. “Damn it!”
“It would’ve been even worse if these monsters really knew how to use that weaponry,” Cornelius said. “All our aircraft and our base would be gone. We’re lucky they must not have half the expertise our Navy did.”
“Bombing still underway,” Eagle Three reported. “We’re hitting it with everything we’ve got.”
The rumble of the explosions barreled into Galveston like an unstoppable chorus of thunder.
“Command, Eagle Six,” another pilot said. “All ordnance deployed. Returning for reload.”
“Eagle Six, can you confirm that all enemy anti-aircraft weapons were eliminated?” Souza asked.
“Affirmative, all weaponry on the George Johnson is disabled! It’s spitting fire, sir. She’s not going to be floating much longer.”
Cornelius raised a fist, and Souza exhaled. Ringgold nodded at both of them, but the victory was short lived. Eagle Six reported two cruisers still had active anti-aircraft weapons.
Ringgold watched the first of the surviving aircraft returning to Galveston. Comm chatter painted a grim picture of the damage to their beleaguered air force.
She turned back to Soprano.
“Go confirm with Hernandez and Vance to see if there is anything the Mexican and Canadians can do to make their troops move faster,” she said.
“Yes, Madam President,” Soprano replied.
“New Gods land units are now twenty minutes to the bridge according to seismic activity,” Cornelius said.
“Sigma?” she asked.
“Still en route, just ahead of them.”
Ringgold raised her binos back to the Gulf Coast. Planes were taking off into the screen of rain and clouds again.
The first dark silhouettes of the First Fleet appeared over the choppy waters.
She zoomed in, and while she couldn’t make out all the details, the looming shape of the USS George Johnson was evident. Half its superstructure vented flames. The massive ship steamed ahead straight toward Galveston, but was listing precariously to its portside.
Two cruisers barreled alongside it. Fingers of smoke rose from each vessel, and most of their decks seemed enveloped in fire. Munitions exploded as the flames spread, shooting geysers of spreading debris into the air.
The smaller crafts that Eagle Six and the Coast Guard Response Boats had spotted were churning alongside the bigger ships, struggling to maintain speed in the violent waves.
“Unless the New Gods brought their own munitions, we know what was on those last ships for the anti-aircraft weapons,” Souza said. “They can’t have much left now, especially after all that damage.”
“I hope you’re right, because we’re sitting ducks,” Ringgold said.
Tracer fire spit into the sky from the cruisers. She watched in horror as the rounds tore into the lead aircrafts. A couple of the pilots managed to avoid the incoming fire, rolling away or diving underneath, but they disappeared in billows of white smoke and fire when missiles struck them.
Only a few made it through with a combination of expert maneuvering and sheer luck.
Blasts from t
he decks of the cruisers as the aircraft dropped their payloads. Part of the decks gave way, flames roaring out like enormous demons from the underworld. Crews on both ships started lowering lifeboats and another wave of smaller craft over the side. Some even jumped straight into the roiling waters.
The guns on the USS George Johnson remained quiet, but she could still see the shapes of surviving enemy soldiers on the decks.
Another wave of explosions rolled over the cruisers.
“Command, Eagle Six,” a pilot reported. “We scored direct hits on the escort cruisers. Coming in now to finish off any survivors on the George Johnson.”
Another explosion rolled over the superstructure of the destroyer. Flames erupted from holes torn into the bent metal, but the ship continued to carve slowly through the water.
That ship might be going down, but the battle wasn’t over.
Sirens wailed over the base once more. Soldiers raced for their battle stations along the walls, and spotlights raked the waters, illuminating the incoming boats.
Ringgold could do nothing but watch them draw closer.
A loud grating sound scraped over Galveston as the sinking George Johnson ground into the sand and rock offshore. Momentum carried it forward, kicking up waves, its ruptured keel slicing into the shallows until finally it lurched sideways, beached nearly four hundred yards from the Galveston beach.
The two burning and dying cruisers made it slightly further before they too succumbed to the same fate. Smaller motorboats and yachts chugged past them, advancing over the rolling waves, and crashed into sand banks.
From each of those smaller vessels, men and monsters jumped over the sides. Ringgold tried to keep track of the dozens upon dozens of creatures pouring off the boats and through the shallows.
Tracer fire lanced from the walls. Low thuds resonated over the beach from grenades and mines. Geysers of sand, fire, and shredded body parts spewed into the air.
A few helicopters they had on reserve made passes over the beach, spitting gunfire and launching rockets into the enemies stampeding over the sand.
Collaborators returned fire with their own rockets. One streaked into a Black Hawk, erupting in a flash of light. The pilots managed to put the damaged bird down on the beach, but a pack of Variants were on them before they could escape the wreckage.
Extinction Cycle: Dark Age Box Set | Books 1-4 Page 125
