Fall of Man | Book 3 | Firebase:

by Sisavath, Sam

  Emily followed, M4 in hand, looking as often behind her as she did on the crazies killing each other on the other side of the building.

  They were still going at it. Screams bounced off the warehouse walls, mingling with the thwacks! of blades sinking into flesh and the crunch! of blunt weapons tearing through muscle and bone.

  She had lost count of the number of moving and unmoving bodies in The Welcome Room. Two dozen? Three? Jesus. How many of them had flocked to LARS when they flew over Terry Flats? Were more still biding their time outside, waiting for an easier target? The crazies weren’t stupid. Some of them would be smart enough to wait for the chaos to subside before showing themselves. The ones that had survived this long had done so for a reason: Like her former neighbor Don Taylor, they knew when to strike and when to hide.

  “Emily.” Greg’s voice in front of her.

  She looked over and realized she had allowed Greg and Tommy to get too far ahead.

  “Come on,” Greg said.

  Emily hurried to catch up. “Go, go.”

  He nodded and turned around to do just that.

  They were walking past the elevator in the middle of the warehouse when Emily froze and looked over.

  The three words she’d been expecting to see on the elevator panel—OUT OF OPERATION—blinking in red letters were no longer there. Instead, there was a green arrow pointing up.

  The elevator was operational again, and someone was coming up.

  Cole, Emily thought, even as she took a step toward the elevator.

  It had to be Cole. Who else would it be?

  “Emily!” Greg, behind her, shouting.

  She glanced back at him. “Go!”

  “What are you doing?”

  “The elevator. Someone’s coming up.”

  Greg and Tommy stopped and turned completely around to stare as if they didn’t quite believe her.

  Emily refocused on the elevator.

  The green arrow was accompanied by numbers.

  8…

  7…

  6…

  “Who is it?” Greg asked.

  “I don’t know,” Emily said.

  5…

  4…

  “What do we do?” Tommy asked.

  Emily didn’t answer. She was too busy staring at the elevator.

  It had to be Cole.

  It had to be.

  3…

  2…

  Pop-pop-pop from nearby, and Emily turned to see Bolton and Minor firing their M4s at a couple of crazies that had broken free from the battle royal who were charging across the warehouse at them. Both fell a few yards apart from one another.

  A loud, echoing ping! as the elevator arrived behind her, snapping Emily’s attention back to it.

  She turned just as the doors opened.

  Slowly.

  So, so impossibly slowly.

  Chapter 19. Cole

  “Cole!”

  “I see him,” he said calmly a second before he fired.

  The boom! of the shotgun blast was still ringing in his ears as the crazy crumpled to the floor in a puddle of blood and guts.

  Cole racked the pump-action, the number two echoing inside his head.

  Two more shells before the shotgun ran dry.

  Two more shells before he was down to the Glock and its nine rounds.

  He walked forward and over the body, careful to avoid the dead man’s expanding pool of blood. The buckshot had caught the crazy—he was wearing another gray LARS overalls—in the chest and chin, shredding most of the latter and leaving a mess behind.

  “Sorry, Ritchie,” Sal said as she tap-tapped her way after Cole. “If it makes any difference, I forgive you for hitting on me all those times.”

  Cole didn’t bother to ask Sal about her history with Ritchie. Sal wasn’t an entirely unattractive woman, and being down here day in and day out would no doubt put her in the crosshairs of her more Romeo-inclined male coworkers.

  Ritchie had charged out of one of the rooms with a knife in his hand. Before Cole had even shot him, the man was already bleeding from multiple wounds that he’d tried to stanch with strips of clothing.

  “How many does Ritchie make?” the Voice asked.

  Cole didn’t know. Between the generator hallway and their current location, the next to last corridor before he would reach the elevator, he’d lost track.

  He stopped briefly in the middle of the long hallway and glanced back at Sal. “How many was that?”

  “Huh?” she said.

  “How many crazies so far?”

  “Oh.” She thought about it for a second or two. “Three. I think.”

  “You think?”

  “Three,” she said, this time with more confidence. Then, sounding way too sarcastic for the situation, “You don’t remember?”

  “I lost count.”

  “You lost count of how many people you’ve killed since the control room?”

  “Yes.”

  “Jesus.”

  “What?”

  “I’m not sure how I would ever lose count of something like that.”

  “You haven’t been where we’ve been, done what we’ve done, and fucked up what we’ve fucked up, chum,” the Voice said, laughing.

  Cole agreed with that sentiment but all he said out loud was, “So, four left.”

  “Yes, I think so,” Sal said. Then, quickly, “I mean, AFAIK.”

  “What?”

  “AFAIK.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “As far as I know.”

  “Why didn’t you just say that in the first place?”

  “I thought you’d know. Who doesn’t know what AFAIK mean?”

  “Us, apparently,” the Voice said.

  “Let’s go,” Cole said out loud, and turned to continue down the corridor.

  Besides the soft tap-tap-tap of Sal’s crutch behind him, Cole could feel her warm breath against the back of his neck. She’d gotten closer since the last hallway, and he resisted the urge to tell her to give him some space. He didn’t, because he didn’t want her to give him too much space. As long as she was behind him instead of in his way, he could live with her nearness. It also meant he wouldn’t need to cover as much space if a crazy popped out behind her and he needed to defend their sixes, too.

  “Almost there,” Sal whispered behind him.

  “Shhh,” he said.

  “I’m just saying.”

  “Shhh,” he said again.

  “Okay, okay. Geez.”

  “She’s trying to get you killed,” the Voice said.

  No, she’s not. She’s just nervous. And she has every right to be.

  Cole had seen it before—too many times to count. Sal was making smartass remarks to keep herself from losing it. He didn’t blame her one bit; she was just a civilian, after all. He, on the other hand—

  The squeaking of tennis shoes from behind them!

  Cole spun, moving around Sal’s suddenly tensed body as she attempted to turn to look behind her while at the same time not slipping on her crutch. He beat her to it, just as the crazy came around the corner and cut the ten or so yards between them to six, five, four—

  Boom!

  The man, wearing white Jordan sneakers with khaki cargo pants and a white dress shirt, lost his balance and flipped into the air, before landing back on the floor with a dull-sounding thump! The flathead screwdriver in his right hand fell and clanged on the tiles before rolling away.

  “Cole!”

  He glanced over his shoulder just as—

  Fred the Chef. He was charging with the kind of inhuman speed that would make a cheetah proud.

  “There he is,” the Voice said. “There’s that pesky little bugger!”

  Cole had no idea where the man had come from, but he was suddenly running down the corridor at them. Cole hadn’t heard him coming, but Sal had. Unfortunately, Fred was already around the turn and halfway to them before Sal did that.

  Seven yards
…

  Six…

  Five…

  Cole whirled around, racking the shotgun.

  “Final shell!” the Voice shouted. “Numero lasto, chum!”

  The ejected shell flicked through the air to Cole’s left as he moved past it, lifting the shotgun to take aim—

  Sal screamed as Fred collided with her, and the two of them went down in a pile in front of Cole.

  Shit!

  Cole took aim, but Fred was on top of Sal, plunging his long knife into her over and over and over again.

  No! No!

  “The code!” the Voice shouted. “She’s got the code!”

  The code to the elevator. Without Sal, he couldn’t turn the damn thing back on!

  Without Sal, he couldn’t get back to Emily!

  Without Sal…!

  Cole was inches from pulling the Remington’s trigger and emptying the last shell, but he didn’t. He couldn’t. Fred was squirming on top of Sal, their bodies banging against one another. If he fired now, Cole was just as liable to hit Sal on the bottom as he was Fred on top of her.

  He quickly slung the shotgun and drew the Glock.

  Fred’s eyes snapped up, blood-red scleras expanding at the sight of Cole. The corners of the man’s lips jerked into a snarl as he leapt off Sal’s twisting and bloody body.

  “Jesus Christ, she’s done for! She’s done for!” the Voice shouted.

  Cole got off a shot—bang!—and saw something that looked like a piece of Fred’s temple snapping loose and flying across the hallway, just before the crazy slammed into him and knocked him off his feet the way Fred had done to poor Sal earlier.

  Sal.

  Poor Sal.

  “The code to the elevator!” the Voice shouted. “Don’t forget the code to the elevator!”

  Shit. The code. Shit!

  But he couldn’t do anything for Sal right now. He was too busy trying not to die himself.

  No wonder Sal didn’t stand a chance against the chef. Cole felt as if he’d been struck in the chest by a runaway train. Only this locomotive was heavier and stronger and way denser, if that was even possible.

  “Oh, it’s definitely possible, ’cause it’s happening!” the Voice said. It wasn’t laughing, though. Which made perfect sense, because this was in no way a laughing matter.

  Not one damn bit.

  Fred was on top of him, already rising to do to Cole what he’d already done to Sal (Sal. Shit! Sal!). Blood dripped from that sausage-like thing that used to be his right ear, that Cole had shot off earlier.

  “Finish him!” the Voice shouted. “This time, don’t miss!”

  Damn right, Cole thought, and lifted his right hand to shoot the motherfucker in the face, because there was no way he was going to miss this shot at point-blank range.

  Wait. Where was the Glock? Where was the goddamn Glock?

  He didn’t know where it was, but it wasn’t in his hand. Getting tackled by Fred—all 200 or so pounds of him, not to mention the extra speed and meanness the adrenaline coursing through his body had given him—had jolted the pistol from Cole’s hand. To make matters worse, he hadn’t realized it until now.

  “You’re fucked!” the Voice said.

  No, I’m not, Cole thought as Fred stabbed down with his knife.

  It was one of those amazingly sharp and almost beautiful chef’s knives. Fourteen inches of gleaming steel with a black handle. Somewhere between three inches in height and an inch or more in width. It was slick with the blood of its victims (Sal’s, most recently. Shit. Sal. Sal! She had the code to the elevator! He needed that code to the elevator!), but somehow still managed to glimmer and glint under the bright hallway lights.

  “You’re fucked!” the Voice shouted again, but Cole didn’t have time to reply the second time. He was too busy lifting his left hand as the knife came down—

  —and went into, then through, his left forearm.

  The point exited about two inches out the other side of his arm, bright red blood dripping from its razor-sharp point.

  Cole didn’t scream. It wasn’t that he didn’t feel any pain, because he felt a lot of pain as the knife went through his skin and came out the other side. It was just that he forgot to scream because he was so shocked by what he’d just done to keep Fred’s weapon from going through his face where it had been clearly aimed.

  Fred must have been just as stunned by Cole’s action, because he paused and didn’t do anything for a heartbeat.

  Or maybe two heartbeats.

  Possibly one and a half.

  Before the man could snap out of it, Cole got his right arm—the one that didn’t have a knife protruding out of it—underneath the chef’s armpit. He jerked up and sideways as hard as he could, and Fred flipped slightly up and to the side, pulling the knife out of Cole’s left arm with him as he did so. This time, Cole did remember to scream as the knife slid out and blood spurted from both holes in his forearm and sprayed him.

  But his own adrenaline was fueling Cole’s actions, and he scrambled to his feet, reached down, and went for the knife on his left hip. He didn’t bother looking for the Glock. It was probably somewhere in the hallway still, he was sure of it, but searching for it would have cost him what little advantage he’d bought himself.

  Fred was picking himself up from the floor, the knife clutched in his left hand scraping loudly against the smooth tiles. He was halfway up and turning when Cole ran at him just as the man had done to him seconds earlier.

  “What’s good for the goose is good for the gander, fucker!” the Voice laughed.

  Cole reached the chef to the stars before the man could completely right himself and, using a combination of his bleeding left arm and momentum, knocked Fred across the small distance of the hallway and into the wall on the other side.

  Instead of letting Fred bounce back, Cole continued pushing forward, giving the man no time to recover.

  Cole’s first stab went into Fred’s left rib cage.

  The second one was around the same area, only an inch higher and farther to the right of the first wound.

  The third and fourth one—both of which really started the blood flowing—went into either the first or the second hole, widening the existing wound. Frankly, Cole didn’t really get a good look at where he was stabbing. He was simply stabbing.

  One, two, three, four times in quick succession.

  Not that Fred went down.

  Oh no.

  But Cole already knew that. The last five days had prepared him for Fred’s response, which was to slash at him.

  Cole stepped back, and the chef’s knife swooshed harmlessly across empty air. Before Fred would right himself for a second attempt, Cole slipped behind him and stabbed with the knife again.

  One, two, three times in the back.

  Fred arched his upper torso under the assault and stumbled forward, then tried to turn around. He did it slowly, like a drunk trying to regain his equilibrium. Cole almost felt sorry for him.

  Almost.

  Cole took a single step back and waited. He didn’t do anything until Fred had turned completely around and he could see the blood flicking from the man’s eyes.

  Then Cole sank the tactical knife into Fred’s left temple, burying the steel almost all the way up to the hilt. The chef grimaced, eyes squinting at Cole. Blood slithered down his cheeks from his eyes, reaching his chin where they comingled before dripping to the floor.

  Fred collapsed in a pile next to Sal.

  “The gun,” the Voice said. “This is a perfect time to look for it, don’t you think?”

  The Voice was right.

  “Of course I’m right!”

  Shut up! Cole thought as he frantically searched the floor for—

  There! It was only a couple of feet from where he stood.

  Cole snatched up the Glock, then hurried back to where Sal lay. He scanned the hallway as he did so, looking up and down in case a crazy (How many were left? He’d lost count. Dammit, he’d lost c
ount again!) took advantage of the chaos to launch its own assault.

  But there was no one behind or in front of him.

  Cole slid to his knees next to Sal and grabbed her head. She was coughing up blood, her glassy eyes filled with tears. Her hands gripped her stomach where Fred had plunged his knife into her so many times that Cole couldn’t even begin to count.

  Sal was bleeding. She was bleeding a lot.

  “She’s a goner,” the Voice said.

  No, she’s not.

  “She’s a goner. Look at her.”

  Not yet…

  “Face it!”

  No!

  Cole leaned down and locked eyes with Sal. Her lips were moving, as if she wanted to say something but didn’t have the strength to even form the sounds that made those words.

  “The code,” Cole said. “What’s the code to the elevator?”

  She squinted back at him as if confused.

  “The code, Sal,” Cole said, the desperation coming through despite his best efforts. “What’s the code to the elevator?”

  A glint of recognition. She understood.

  He hoped.

  “The code,” he said again. “What’s the code?”

  Her mouth trembled again, pale and bloody lips quivering. He waited, but heard nothing besides pained wheezing.

  He leaned down even closer, taking his eyes off the hallway around him to focus on her. “The code, Sal. The code. What’s the code to the elevator? I need the code. Please.”

  She whispered.

  “What?” he said.

  She whispered again.

  Then she closed her eyes, and her body went slack.

  Cole didn’t waste time checking her vitals. She was dead. She’d stopped breathing. Her entire body was motionless from head to toe.

  He struggled to his feet—his legs were heavier than usual—and stumbled his way up the hallway. He gripped the Glock tightly in his right hand, his left leaving a bloody trail behind him.

  Oh, right. His left arm. It was soaked in blood.

  His blood.

  “Might wanna get that looked at,” the Voice said.

  He stopped briefly next to a dead LARS employee and undid a handkerchief the man had wrapped around his neck. Cole took a second—or five, maybe ten—to tie the cloth around his left arm, covering up the two holes Fred had put into his forearm.