The Soldier (Book 2): Sanctuary

by Lundy, W. J.

  “Is that it?” he said to himself. He looked at his wristwatch and set a timer for ten minutes. They had just enough time until the lights went out. Before he could tell Clive he was done, gunfire echoed from the hallway. The workers started screaming again. Luke turned and yelled, “They need backup, let’s go.”

  Clive shot a salute then turned to the cowering workers. “Hey, you all stay here until we get back—no matter what, don’t touch nothing or go into that hallway,” he said before turning and running back toward Luke.

  Once they were outside the door, they ran down the hall, back to the entrance. There was gunfire and rounds popping off outside. Clive stopped him. “Did you do what you needed to get done back there?”

  “We’re about to find out,” Luke said. He looked over at the vault door. It was still creeping open, probably already wide enough for Kate to get out. In a few more minutes, it would be enough for Richardson. He stuck his head out and could see his men taking cover in alcoves along the walls. On occasion, Weaver would reach out and fire rounds into the roof. Return fire would come back, pecking at the concrete and pinging off the blast door. Luke turned his head down the ramp, where a row of SWAT members were creeping up behind bulletproof shields.

  “Shit.” He looked at his watch then yelled out, “Hold your fire! Hold your fire!”

  Weaver gave him a thumbs up and leaned back into the alcove. When Luke looked back around the corner, the SWAT team had stopped its forward movement. “We just want to leave!” Luke yelled.

  There was silence from down the ramp. Weaver went to look out, and there were gunshots, rounds peppering the corner of the wall, inches from his friend’s face. Luke yelled again. “What the hell? I told you… all we want to do is leave.”

  “I was letting you leave.” Luke recognized the director’s voice. “What is wrong with you? You attack my guards, you break into my communications lab.”

  Luke looked at Clive, and the man shrugged. “Cameras, brother, they see everything.”

  “You’re right. We had to try, but we couldn’t find anything. We just want to leave,” Luke shouted. He looked at his watch; they were down to five minutes. The vault was now wide enough for them to leave. But his people would be cut down if they tried in front of the firing squad on the ramp.

  Daring a look around the corner, he could see the SWAT line and several men with their rifles pointed at him. Just behind them was the director and a group of guards. One of them was on the phone. The man turned to the director. “He’s telling the truth, sir. The lab says they didn’t do anything, just scared the piss out of the systems administrators. Sounds like they heard our shots and got the hell out of there.”

  The director turned away, then looked back up the ramp. “I could have you locked up for a decade for this.”

  Luke let his rifle hang from the sling and put his hands up, stepping around the corner. “If we start a real firefight, shit is going to get ugly fast—my people go back to that lab and kill them all or burn it down,” Luke said. “I told you, all we want to do is leave.”

  The man next to the director leaned in close. They talked, then the director took a step back, waving his hands frantically. “Go, get the hell out now.”

  Luke turned to Weaver and pointed at the vault door. It was now wide enough for them to easily walk through to the other side. Weaver pointed to Tucker and Kate. Apprehensively, they left their hiding places and slipped out, followed by Scott and O’Riley. Richardson and Clive peeled from their spots and went through the opening with Weaver.

  Walking backward toward the door with his hands still up, Luke checked the ramp space a last time. They were all out. He turned around and exited through the vault door, where his people were waiting. Clive and Richardson were working to open a smaller, manual set of blast doors as the rest of the team covered them. In no time, the small door opened, letting in bright daylight, and Luke’s people poured out. The vault door made a loud clunk then the direction reversed, slowly closing. Before it moved a full inch, the lights went out.

  As Luke heard the SWAT team cursing from the other side of the door, he turned and ran after the others, into a large parking lot. The structure behind him looked like little more than a garage from the street. Richardson was sprinting toward a white-and-black painted Suburban with the others close behind him. Weaver was halfway in between with his rifle pointed back at the building.

  Weaver’s expression changed just as gunshots and rounds zipped past Luke’s head as he ran. Weaver returned fire. A yelp behind him told Luke the soldier was now playing for keeps. When he looked back, he saw a security guard had been hit in the chest plate and knocked off his feet. Now the man was scrambling back for the doorway.

  With the complex mainframe down, the rules had changed. There was no more letting them go. Rounds peppered around Luke’s feet, and the back window of the Suburban exploded. Luke ran past Weaver, who was firing rapidly, suppressing the SWAT team members trying to get out the door.

  Luke slapped the quarter panel of the SUV then turned and fired, allowing Weaver to peel back. As soon as he let up, the security team leaned out of the garage and fired blind on them. He slapped the Suburban with his left hand again. “Go, go, go, get back to the Beast; we’ll cover you.”

  He dropped to a knee and bled off an entire magazine, aiming low, letting rounds skip off the gravel, peppering the entrance with stones and dust. Weaver was up and running past him several yards before dropping and doing the same, saying, “We’re going to have to start killing these guys. They seem awful pissed off.”

  They bounded back, taking turns suppressing the door until they’d reached a tree line. A man burst from the entry, his rifle in the shoulder, firing indiscriminately in the wrong direction. Going from the dark room and into the bright sunlight provided momentary blindness that Luke and Weaver took advantage of.

  Luke clenched his teeth, not wanting to do it. He aimed low at the man’s shins and fired three rounds, the third hitting just above the ankle, in an armored shin plate. The man tumbled in the air like he’d been blasted by a Louisville Slugger, screaming in agony, the leg probably broken.

  “They probably think we took the whole place down,” Luke said frantically, scrambling for a reload.

  Weaver was back up, watching the door. Every time a man stepped out, he would place accurate fire all over him. “We didn’t?”

  “No time to tell you the details, but no.”

  Luke looked around. He could see the large radio tower to their southwest. Pointing it out to Weaver, he said, “Let’s get the hell out of Dodge. I don’t think lights are going to make a difference to them.” Together, they emptied another magazine then spun back into the tree line and took off at a full sprint.

  They found they were running downhill, scrambling between trees. The duo crossed over an open street and into another tree line on the other side. The pair stopped and leaned against trees, panting, while they reloaded their weapons and listened for anyone pursuing them. After a short pause, Luke looked at his watch. “Power has to be back up by now. Maybe they figured out this fight ain’t worth it.”

  Weaver looked at him and shook his head. “Brother, I am so damn confused right now. What exactly did you do?”

  “That doctor gave me some tool, something on a thumb drive. It forced a reboot to their central mainframe then hosed up whatever was causing the jamming.”

  Pushing a finger in and out of his closed fist, Weaver grinned. “Damn Casanova, I don’t know how you do it.”

  Luke shook his head at the soldier. “You know you all have problems, right?” He stepped back into the road, spun a quick 360, then pointed. “It’s this way.”

  Weaver nodded and followed him. “So this program, it only broke the jamming?”

  “That’s what she said.” Luke stopped and looked down the road. The MRAP was on the move and headed in their direction with the Suburban just behind it. “Now who in the hell is driving my truck?”

 
He stepped off to the side and waited as the MRAP rolled past them then stopped. The door opened with Tucker in the driver’s seat. Luke began to chew him out, when the man reached to the center and flipped on the radio.

  Luke smiled, hearing radio traffic. It was a HAM radio operator in Maryland. Tucker turned the knob and they heard another. Nearly every frequency had people talking.

  The jammer was down.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Day of Infection, Plus Twenty

  Near Hayslette, Virginia

  The big rig pulled to the shoulder of the road and cut the engine. Joe jumped from the driver’s door and ran to a nearby bush, dropping his pants and squatting. Men lining the top of the box trailer slid down ropes to the ground and unlatched the rear doors. They were parked on a high overlook, a hilltop with wide grassy plains that showed no signs of life, but more importantly, no Primals. In the distance, just short of the horizon, they could see Camp Alamo. The camp was in a fight for its life, surrounded with Marines firing into the hordes pressed up against the walls.

  Mega pulled himself through a hole in the roof and walked toward the cab of the truck.

  “Why are we stopping?” a man asked.

  Pointing at the battle in the valley below them, Mega said, “That’s where we’re headed. You really want to go there right now?”

  The man looked at the battle, his brow tightened.

  “Yeah, I didn’t think so,” Mega scoffed. “Just be happy we finally stopped. Go drink some water and change your socks.”

  “Do what?” the man said, confused.

  “Stop bothering me,” Mega barked, causing the man to flinch so hard he nearly fell off the trailer.

  The soldier was tired and dirty, having spent the entire day and night loading survivors and then trying to fight back Primals as they navigated the big truck down county roads. His armor was covered in blood and sweat, and earlier he’d stepped in something in the trailer that he didn’t even want to know what it was.

  He was done with all of it, and just a little pissed at Gyles for not rotating him into the cab for at least a tiny bit of sleep. He grabbed a rope at the front of the box trailer and slid down to the ground. He saw Kenny and Culver gathered off to the right in the high grass. They were standing with cigarettes dangling from their lips, watching the distant battle.

  “Hey, dickwads. I ain’t riding in that trailer anymore. One of you fools needs to switch with me.”

  Kenny shook his head. “Not me, Hoss, I’m the navigator.”

  Culver frowned. “No can do, buddy. I’m keeping Joe straight… who knows what he might do if I leave him alone.”

  “Screw that noise, I ain’t riding in the trailer anymore.” He turned and looked toward the cab. “Hey, where’s Sergeant Gyles?”

  Culver looked down and moved his head side to side. “Not here.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Mega said, his chest puffing out, his temper beginning to rage. “Where is he?”

  Kenny took a step toward the big man. “I’m sorry, Mega. Sergeant Gyles didn’t get on the truck.”

  “Nahh… bullshit. I saw him jump onto the garage to help with evacuations. He made it across, I saw him. We got everyone out, even that priest and his boyfriend.” The big man walked to the cab of the truck and climbed up, looking into the sleeper cab. He looked back at the soldiers. “Where is he?”

  Culver swallowed hard. “He’s with the Hummer. He went ahead to clear a path. He’s probably down there at Camp Alamo right now.”

  Mega put his head back and wiped his brow with his forearm. “Holy hell, you guys scared the shit out of me. Why you guys always messing with me? Shit ain’t funny.”

  A large explosion in the distance turned them around. A fireball hundreds of yards long erupted in front of Alamo’s walls. In the air, a pair of F35s screamed by in a long arc then came back for a second napalm run.

  Kenny pointed. “Those are zoomies! The Air Force is back!”

  Epilogue

  Taking the water jug, Gyles spun off the cap and tried to pour it over his head, getting a small stream of warm water for his efforts. He kicked at the door, it finally breaking free on the third blast from his boot. The steel door swung open with a shrill screech. He tried to step out but mostly fell then rolled to the ground, landing on the scorched remains of a body. He pushed up and pressed back against the Humvee. The street was destroyed, lined with burnt-out cars and the smoldering bodies of the dead, the buildings nothing but smoking rubble.

  Gyles rested his head against the body of the vehicle, breathing hard. He’d passed out sometime during the night, waking at every scream and moan of the infected as they walked the streets, despite the blazing flames. He heard every explosion in the burning city, felt the rumble of every collapse. Somehow, his vehicle in the intersection survived the devastation, even if it nearly roasted him alive. Near his boots was a naked body, its skin blackened, the hair burnt away. The damn things followed him here. Even burning to death, they followed him.

  Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to his knees and then up to his feet. He walked back to the door and reached into his pack, grabbing a half full canteen. He spun the cap and drank until it was gone. Then he stepped back and looked at the Humvee. It was completely pinned in by the steel pole, two of its tires flat. No way he was getting it free. He reached inside, grabbed his poncho liner, and stuffed it back into his pack. He looked at his armor and shook his head, deciding to leave it.

  He turned and began walking down the center of the street toward the church. His mind was dulled, his thoughts clouded. Looking left and right, there were no people, no infected. Everything was ash, everything destroyed. His skin was pelted with black snow falling from the sky, the only thing that remained of the city. He laughed for a second, then choked on the smoke. “I did this; I burnt you down,” he said, looking at buildings.

  In the smoky haze of the skyline, he could just make out the church tower. He stood motionless, blinking away the sting in his eyes. As the smoke cleared, he could see that the tower was different. The top portion of the bell platform had collapsed. He stopped and turned around, everything destroyed. He had nowhere to go.

  The sound of car engines replaced the silence that had overtaken the city. Ahead of him, he could see their outlines—a convoy of black SUVs. They drove right toward him, not slowing down. He held his ground, not out of defiance, but out of shock. With only feet to spare, the lead vehicle hit the brakes. Doors opened and men in black utility uniforms spread out, covering the street.

  A man stepped from the passenger side of the lead vehicle. The stranger was wearing black cargo pants, with a black shirt and black combat boots. The only part of the man’s uniform that wasn’t black was the T-shirt he wore under his top. It was white, its brightness reflecting at him. Gyles laughed, thinking he was imagining it all.

  The man looked at Gyles and said, “What’s so funny?”

  “You all can relax,” Gyles said. “It’s safe here.”

  “Relax?” the man asked.

  Gyles laughed again. “City is clear; I already killed them all.”

  The driver looked at Gyles nervously, then to the man next to him. “I think this guy has lost it.”

  This caused another burst of laughter from Gyles. “What business do you have in my city?”

  “Are you Army? We were told all of the Army had pulled out of here,” the driver said.

  Nodding, Gyles grunted, “Yeah, I am the Army.”

  “Sergeant Gyles?” a voice shouted from the back.

  A pair of men dressed in the same black uniforms ran forward from a trail vehicle. Gyles staggered back, feeling drunk on his feet. He focused on the men. He knew who they were, but their names wouldn’t register in his still spinning brain. He dropped to a knee, his rifle hitting the ground next to him with a clack. Then he fell back onto his rear, sitting in the street.

  “We should leave him. He’s probably infected,” he heard the
driver say.

  Gyles looked up and tried to focus.

  “No, we aren’t leaving him,” said one of the men whose names Gyles couldn’t remember, running to his side. The man put his hands on Gyles’s face. “Sergeant Gyles, it’s me—Corporal Rodriguez.” The medic looked back toward the line of vehicles and shouted, “Get Doctor Howard up here now! I know this man!”

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  About the Author

  W. J. Lundy is a still serving Veteran of the U.S. Military with service in Afghanistan. He has over 16 years of combined service with the Army and Navy in Europe, the Balkans and Southwest Asia. W.J. is an avid athlete, writer, backpacker and shooting enthusiast. He currently resides with his wife and daughter in Central Michigan.

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  http://www.wjlundy.com

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