Fall of Man | Book 3 | Firebase:

by Sisavath, Sam

  Double fuck.

  The Voice laughed. “You sure have a way with words, chum.”

  A sound—a squeaking sound—from somewhere in front of him, on the other side of the entry hallway. Not inside the entry hallway itself yet, but approaching.

  Someone was coming.

  At least, he hoped it was just one someone, and not someones.

  “Relax. The crazies are lone wolves, remember?” the Voice said.

  Cole hoped it was right. Just in case, he retreated until his back was pressed against the cold steel elevator doors. At least he didn’t have to worry about anything sneaking up behind him, not with the elevator stuck between floors.

  He squinted, forcing his eyes to adjust to the darkness before they were ready. It worked…somewhat. He still couldn’t see very much, but it was a lot better than last time.

  He glanced down at his watch. The Patek 5146G was a gift from Emily for his last birthday. White platinum case with a black alligator strap. What made it important were the lumed hands that tick, tick, ticked in the dark. He was glad she’d chosen the 5146 instead of the 5396, which didn’t have lumed hands and would have left him staring at nothing.

  Instead, he was able to see that an entire minute had passed since the lights went out.

  And it was still dark.

  Triple fuck.

  The Voice laughed, even as something Sal had told Cole came back to the forefront of his mind:

  “The blackouts will keep happening until the entire unit shuts down. It started two days ago. Quick, sporadic bursts at first. But it’s getting longer. When it finally craps out, we’ll be walking around in the dark.”

  It was the “when it finally craps out, we’ll be walking around in the dark” part that kept echoing in his head even as he peered down the narrow corridor in front of him. There was an awful lot of open space. Having the elevator at his back also allowed him to keep tabs on it without having to look at it; if it started moving again, he’d be able to feel the vibrations.

  He peeked at his watch again.

  Two minutes since the lights went out.

  “Quick, sporadic bursts at first. But it’s getting longer now. When it finally craps out, we’ll be walking around in the dark.”

  Cole reached up and swiped at some dampness on his chin. He couldn’t see it, but he was sure it was blood. Again, probably Sal’s and his own. His left forearm, where Fred the Chef had nearly sliced his arm off, throbbed uncontrollably from time to time. He’d forgotten all about it until the pain reared its head.

  “Really? How did you forget about that?” the Voice asked.

  He didn’t know, he just had.

  Squeaking from somewhere in front of him again.

  Cole flexed his fingers around the grip of the Glock.

  “Relax. There’s plenty of space between you and him,” the Voice said. “Or them, in case they’ve learned to team up.”

  That’s not going to happen.

  “You never know.”

  You’re not helping.

  “Again, I dis—Watch out!”

  The darkness shifted and morphed into a living, moving thing in front of him.

  A figure, appearing in the hallway.

  A man?

  A woman?

  Did it matter?

  Cole fired and heard the bullet ping! off the far hallway, setting off a small spark at the other end.

  He’d missed!

  He knew he’d missed, because the figure was still coming, the shadows in front of him seeming to twist and turn but always moving forward, the squeak-squeak-squeak! getting louder and louder with each one.

  He fired again and heard a second ping! as the bullet ricocheted off another part of the far hallway. Except this time the muzzle flash of the gunshot gave him a glimpse—albeit a blink-and-you’ll-miss one—of the incoming crazy.

  It was a woman, wearing black pants and a black shirt. She must have smeared her face with some kind of dark grease, which explained why she’d managed to camouflage herself so well within the dark corridor. Not that those things hid her crazed eyes. Cole couldn’t see anything that looked like a weapon on her, but he didn’t believe for a second she was running at him barehanded.

  For one, she was tiny. Maybe barely five feet.

  But fast.

  Fast enough to, literally, dodge his bullets by weaving side to side as she gained ground.

  Cole began squeezing off shots, oscillating his fire from left to center to right—

  Click! as the Glock’s slide snapped back and stopped moving.

  There was the thwump! of a body falling in front of him. Close. So close. Something sharp and metal clanged! to the floor and rolled for a few seconds before stopping.

  Cole lowered the Glock.

  The empty Glock.

  He’d wasted five bullets killing a barely-5-foot woman running around in the dark.

  “Someone’s rusty,” the Voice said.

  He sighed. The Voice was right. There was no reason he should have wasted all those bullets to kill one person, never mind a woman.

  Cole put the gun away—empty or not, it could still prove useful if he found spare 9mm rounds—and drew the knife. He walked over to the body—he could just make out her outline—and crouched next to it.

  The woman had definitely smeared grease on her face; he could smell it in the air. She had long hair and there was a fresh hole in her right cheek, which told him he hadn’t missed her completely before landing the killing shot. The culprit was the bullet in her chest that had pierced her heart. A long screwdriver with a plastic handle lay nearby.

  He was still looking at the woman when the lights above him flickered once, twice—then came back on.

  “About fucking time,” the Voice said.

  On cue, the elevator behind him started back up.

  Cole hurried over, watching as the number on the panel changed from “6” to “7.”

  “8”

  He took a quick step back, switching up his grip on the knife. It was a long tactical blade, good for close-quarter combat. Of course, he’d rather have a gun, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.

  “9”

  He got into position, ready to fire like a missile at anyone who wasn’t Emily—or a familiar face—when the elevator doors opened.

  The panel display struck “10,” followed by the familiar ping! as the doors began to part.

  Cole lunged—

  —into an empty elevator.

  There was blood on the metal floor that hadn’t been there when he was last inside the elevator. The person that had left it behind had also marked the panel with bloody fingerprints, most of the blood having coagulated over the lone arrow pointing up.

  A flash of movement from outside the elevator, back in the corridor.

  A crazy with cartoonishly wide eyes raced through the hallway. He had a meat cleaver in one hand, torn and blood-splattered clothing rippling around him as he charged.

  “Where’s he going?” the Voice asked.

  I don’t have a fucking clue, Cole thought as he pressed the up button.

  The elevator doors began to close, prompting the crazy to run faster.

  And faster still.

  “You think he’ll make it?” the Voice asked.

  Fuck if I know, Cole thought, even as he tightened his grip on the knife and waited, just in case the man did make it.

  He was fast. Damn, he was fast. In the blink of an eye, he’d already made up half the distance between them.

  “Usain friggin’ Bolt, this guy,” the Voice said.

  Cole took a quick step back as the elevator doors began to slide close and—

  Thoom! as the crazy slammed into the steel slabs on the other side.

  The elevator started ascending, and the number on the panel changed to “9.”

  “Close but no cigar, chum,” the Voice said, laughing. “Now let’s hope the power doesn’t go off while we’re headed up.”

  Don’t jinx it
.

  “I’m just saying.”

  You can stop.

  The Voice snorted but didn’t say anything else.

  Cole took a moment to check his wound. He was bleeding again, but not enough to get his attention. He wiped the blood along the back of his palm on one of his pant legs, then swiped at some sweat across his brow.

  The elevator continued to move, if too slowly.

  “8”

  Why was it so damn slow?

  “7”

  He was pretty sure it was faster the last time.

  “6”

  But he could be wrong.

  “5…”

  Chapter 22. Emily

  “The helicopter!” Emily shouted. “Get to the helicopter now!”

  “What about Cole?” someone asked. She wasn’t sure who it was, but it was one of the women.

  “Get to the helicopter!” she said again.

  “But what about Cole?” someone else asked. Another woman, but not the same one.

  It was either Zoe or Fiona, or both of them. It couldn’t have been Dante or Greg, or Bolton. And certainly Tommy—along with Stoner’s remaining soldiers, Minor and Cameron—wouldn’t have asked. As for Ashley and Savannah, they were too far in the back to be heard.

  “Goddammit, get to the helicopter!” Emily shouted before turning around to look for, then zeroing in on, Bolton.

  The chopper pilot was staring at her as if she were speaking in Greek. Or maybe he just couldn’t believe what she was telling him, because frankly she couldn’t believe it, either.

  What about Cole?

  What about Cole?

  “Get them to the chopper,” she said, gritting her teeth at Bolton. “Do you understand?”

  Bolton nodded back at her. “Yeah.”

  “Do it. Now.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Bolton said. He turned to the others. “You heard the lady; let’s vamos, folks! Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go!”

  They went. Grudgingly, in the case of Zoe and Greg.

  But they went nonetheless. It was a good thing they did, because she had no time to push them in the right direction. She watched them heading for the side door, Greg carrying the unconscious Stoner over his shoulder as if the former colonel (or whatever his rank had been) was little more than a child. Bolton led the way, Minor and Cameron watching their six as they went.

  Emily didn’t follow them. Instead, she ran in the other direction, her mind full of Cole.

  I’m sorry, sweetheart.

  God, I’m so sorry.

  There was a quick burst of gunfire behind her. She glanced back over her shoulder.

  Cameron, the young soldier, had fallen behind the others. He’d done it for a reason. There were two crazies writhing on the ground not more than five yards from him. He’d shot them both, wasting way too many bullets doing so for her liking.

  “Come on!” Minor said, running back to Cameron.

  The two of them ran after the others.

  Emily turned and finished running to the smaller of the two offices. Her goal was sitting on the counter where she last saw them: The pouch with the experimental gas canisters. She hadn’t seen anyone carrying it earlier and knew it would still be in here. Both Cameron and Minor had grabbed the ammo bags and weapons, though, which was smart of them. Thank God she still had a spare for the Glock.

  She snatched the pouch from the counter. It felt light. Too light. Six gas canisters shouldn’t have been that light. Or maybe that was just her paranoia playing tricks on her.

  “It was still experimental the last time I saw the reports. Never got a chance to put it to work in the field,” Stoner had said.

  He should really have added “Until now,” because he had deployed them in the field. She and Greg had been the guinea pigs.

  And the gas had worked. That was all she cared about. They had knocked her and Greg out.

  And if it worked on them…

  The pop-pop-pop of more automatic gunfire, this time coming from outside the warehouse. The others, already moving toward the airfield and Bolton’s chopper.

  She hurried outside—and nearly lost her head. And she would have, if the doorframe hadn’t gotten in the way.

  It was a machete, the blade dented from the guard all the way up to the point. It was covered in a thick lather of blood and would have chopped her head off at the neck as she reached the door if it hadn’t embedded itself into the doorframe with a loud, resounding thwack! first.

  The person behind the long blade—a young woman in dirt and blood-covered white tennis shoes and a pink shirt that was about two sizes too tight for her, with the word SEXY written in cursive letters across the chest and over her plentiful breasts—looked just as stunned by what had happened as Emily did. The woman’s eyes leaked blood that dripped down rosy red cheeks as they widened to comical proportions, reminding Emily of those highly exaggerated animated characters from Japan.

  The woman was trying to pry the machete out of the wooden door—at least a full inch of it had gone into the frame—when Emily took a step back, drew the Glock, and shot her twice in the chest.

  Emily jumped over the still-spasming body and ran in the direction of the side door. She glimpsed Minor and Cameron through the open door. They hadn’t gone nearly as far as she’d thought, because she could still see them. The others were nowhere to be seen, including Bolton. The two soldiers were firing while standing back to back. She could see sunlight glinting off their spent shell casings as they flicked through the air.

  Even as she ran, Emily grabbed the first gas canister from the pouch and pulled the pin. It hissed, and before the smoke could begin to discharge—she figured she had five seconds, maybe less—Emily threw it as hard as she could. It sailed in a wide arc through the air before landing between four crazies trying to murder one another.

  The pop, followed by the plume of, this time, red smoke.

  How appropriate, Emily thought even as she reached for the second canister—

  —a ghostly figure burst through the cloud of quickly expanding smoke in front of her like some kind of demon from the bowels of hell.

  And maybe that was exactly what it was, just masquerading as a man in his forties, wearing a ripped tweed jacket and dust-stained dress slacks. Emily imagined reading glasses hanging over the bridge of the man’s nose, struggling to stay in place as he made a beeline for her. She thought inanely that the bloody axe clutched in his hand was incredibly out of place.

  Emily drew the Glock as the crazy made up ground between them.

  Twenty yards…

  Fifteen…

  Ten…

  She fired, striking him in the shoulder. He’d been moving too much, swinging wildly as he ran toward her. He twisted slightly on impact, slowing down just long enough for her to line up a second shot.

  This one struck him in the forehead, and the man’s head snapped back just before he collapsed in a pile. The axe skidded away.

  Emily put the handgun away and took out another canister.

  The hiss of the pin being pulled, then the canister flying away, followed by the pop! as it began smearing its contents across the open space of the warehouse.

  Emily began moving toward the side door again, taking out another canister and sending it away as she did so. Smoke—red, blue, and now green—grew in volume like a rainbow plague in front of her.

  Two crazies, shoving knives into each other, collapsed when the smoke engulfed them.

  It’s working.

  Thank God it’s working.

  She grabbed a fourth can and tossed it, then watched white clouds spew forth even as the canister rolled toward another group of crazies.

  She threw a quick glance over at the side door. Cameron and Minor were still visible outside, but they had put some distance between themselves and the opened door. They were shooting and moving at the same time, headed toward the airfield where she pictured Bolton preparing the helicopter for takeoff.

  Would he wait for her?r />
  Goddammit, he better wait—

  Something grabbed her legs from behind and upended her.

  No!

  Emily had another canister in her hand when she struck the floor, and it flew from her hand. A much larger body slammed into her back, pummeling her mercilessly into the floor. She wasn’t quite sure how she managed to keep from screaming out in pain. Maybe she actually did, but she couldn’t hear anything with her ears ringing. She still had the pouch dangling off one shoulder, and the edges of the remaining can dug into her flesh as she crashed right down on top of it.

  A gruff hand grabbed her by the shoulder and violently turned her around until she was lying on her back.

  She stared up at her attacker, her breath hammering out of her split lips. In the blink of an eye, all the pain slipped away and was replaced by pure terror.

  Anton.

  It was Anton.

  He was holding the ice pick that she’d seen him with earlier, but it was the eyes—and that insane grin on his face—that she couldn’t look away from.

  This wasn’t the Anton she knew. If she had any doubts, they were long gone. She didn’t recognize the murderous thing looking back down at her. He hadn’t had to turn her over; he could have just stabbed her with the ice pick.

  But he hadn’t.

  Why? Did he want her to see him before he killed her? Was that it? Was it some cruel, taunting gesture so he could elicit maximum pleasure from her murder?

  She managed to look away from his face only because of the obscene thing flopping against her stomach. It was Anton’s penis, moving around like some wild animal with a mind of its own. It was fully hard now, and for whatever reason that made things worse. Not that they weren’t worse already, but this was just an extra grotesque detail that she didn’t need to see seconds before she died.

  No, she wasn’t going to die. She wasn’t about to let him kill her. Because giving up meant giving up on the baby inside her.

  And there was no way Emily was going to allow that.

  She hadn’t five days ago when all of this started.

  And she wasn’t about to five days later.

  No.

  No.

  No!

  She swung with her left hand, balling her fingers into a fist, and struck Anton in the chest even as he reared up to deliver the killing below.