Carlie Simmons (Book 4): The Gathering Darkness (5 page)

Chapter 9

In the armory the next morning, while
Shane was running through an inventory of his team’s weapons and ammunition, he
heard Matias and Eliza enter the room. He turned his back to them, examining
the barrel of an MK-12 rifle.

“So how’s mi amigo doing on this fine
morning?” said Matias, grabbing the back of Shane’s shoulder with both hands in
a congratulatory rub.

Shane just grumbled, “I’d rather not talk
about it.”

Matias looked back at Eliza, who hunched
her shoulders up.

“So, she showed up and you two had dinner,
right?” Matias said.

“Yeah, we had dinner,” he said, shoving
the rifle back on the rack. “We had dinner and everything was going just fine—and
then she had to go all of a sudden, had to prep for today’s training activities.”
He raised his fingers to claw out air quotes at the last two words.

Matias and Eliza both stepped back,
crossing their arms and trying to hold back their discomfort at the awkward
situation. Shane turned around and grabbed the same rifle off the rack to
re-inspect it.

Eliza cleared her throat. “You know, Carlie
can be very stubborn and…” Before she could finish Shane cut her off, turning
around with a greasy rag in his hand that he kept squeezing in his right hand.
“‘Stubborn’ is too kind a word for that woman. She’s a thick-headed,
steel-vaulted…” He stopped, his face red and his jaw clenching. He threw the
rag at the wall and walked off.

“Fuckin’ soap opera I’m livin’ in,” he
muttered as he stomped up the steps.

Matias watched him walk away and then
glanced back at Eliza. “Those two just gotta stop putting hurdles in their
way.”

Eliza placed the rifle back on the rack. “I
suspect it’s mostly Carlie, and she’s probably tripping over some of her own in
this case.”

Chapter 10

Inside the infirmary on the second floor of the prison, Doctor Benjamin Holcomb
was finishing the last stitches on the cervical region of his patient. Holcomb
was hunched forward, his bifocals barely clinging to the tip of his glistening,
oily nose. A few strands of floss-like hair hung over his balding head and his
miniscule eyebrows kept scrunching together as he completed the final knot in
the suture.

“The anesthetic is going to be wearing off
soon,” said the lanky assistant on the far side of the operating table.

“Yes, yes. I’m nearly done here so
everything should be fine. This procedure went much smoother than the last one,
wouldn’t you say.”

The man just grinned, exposing his missing
front teeth. “Good thing there’s no longer any insurance companies to worry
about, eh.”

Holcomb’s unconscious patient was face
down, the cheeks resting on a donut-shaped pad, allowing the mouth and nose to
remain unobstructed. A slight moan emanated out from the space below the
headpiece and the fingers began twitching, the hands secured by leather straps
to the sides of the table. As Holcomb finished snipping the end of the
remaining suture, he leaned back in his swivel stool and stretched his stiff
shoulders. “Only two more surgeries to go and then it’s dinner time. The rest
of them I’ll finish tomorrow. ”

He heard footsteps approaching and he
turned to see Mitchell entering, flanked by two thugs. “Dinner will have to
wait. I am speeding up the timeline. I need all of your work completed by
tonight.

The two henchmen covered their mouths with
their sleeves and then stepped back out, closing the door behind them. Mitchell
strode forward and leaned over to inspect the doctor’s handiwork. “How long
before this one is ambulatory and ready for action, Doctor?”

Holcomb always delighted in hearing his
title echo off the walls of the operating room. He held back a crooked smile,
wondering if Mitchell was just trying to flatter him with a designation he had
been formerly stripped of for killing two patients on one of his drunken
binges. Those days seemed so distant now that he had been put in charge as
chief medical officer of the prison, free to dispense his own brand of
healthcare without a meddling oversight committee.

Holcomb tossed the suturing implements on
the soiled cart beside his patient and then clumsily removed his latex gloves.
After dropping them on the blood-stained floor, he removed his spectacles and
rubbed his weary eyes.

“The meds will wear off shortly so we
should get going on the next surgery. I just need ten minutes to stretch and
retrieve a few things from my office.”

“A swig of vodka does not a steady hand
make,” said Mitchell, folding his arms against the shoulder holsters on either
side of him as his six-foot-four frame towered over the doctor. “You’ve got
five minutes. One of my guards will accompany you to make sure your little
respite doesn’t take a wrong turn. I need you sober to complete the rest of
these implants.”

Holcomb swallowed hard and looked away. He
knew that his skills were unique amongst the other prison inmates but he also
knew from the mass grave outside of the prison that Mitchell was ruthless in
his quest for power. He could be decidedly cool at times and then the next
minute he would slit the throat of the man beside him because he coughed. The
man was predictable to a point until his sadistic shadow-self wrestled control
away from the otherwise charismatic leader that he presented to the inmates.

“He’s coming around, Doctor,” muttered the
assistant, who took a step back.

“It’s not a he…it’s not even an it,” said
Mitchell. “This is an abomination of nature, a cruel design, but thank God for
anomalies.”

The doctor pushed his rolling stool to the
right. His eyes widened at the sight of the writhing mutant on the table which
was stirring back to its former alertness. Its hissing filled the tight
confines of the room and its smooth yellow skin glowed like the exoskeleton of
a scorpion under a black light.

Mitchell moved forward and flipped the
diminutive switch on the device imbedded into the cervical region. It produced
a red blip which began flashing. He reached over to the sliding table beside
him and removed a device that resembled a small walkie-talkie, twisting on the
control knob.

“Is this pre-programmed?” Mitchell snapped
at Holcomb.

“Yes, the frequency is all set. Just use
the side button to control the shock level emitted by the neck implant.”

As the creature began thrashing, Mitchell
lightly tapped on the handheld device. These had formerly been used to control
the small group of German Shepherds that the prison guards employed. One of
Mitchell’s electronic technicians had modified the devices by combining the electrical
leads from Tasers into the shock collar software. Holcomb had gone through
nearly forty creatures before perfecting the method and getting the voltage
level just right to constrain the fast-moving mutants.

Mitchell eagerly worked the control
button, watching in wonder as the crudely embedded electrodes in the neck began
shocking the creature. With each hiss of resistance from the mutant, Mitchell
delivered another shock, watching the figure slump unresponsive for a few
seconds before beginning its futile attempt to free itself. Mitchell paused and
turned the knob on his device to a higher setting.

“That’s enough voltage,” mumbled Holcomb,
who was pressed against the wall like a bat with his arms spread. “Too much and
it will destroy the central nervous system.”

Mitchell moved forward again, this time
motioning to the petrified assistant to uncuff the beast’s right side while he
manipulated the left. The frail man hesitated, recoiling into the counter
behind him.

“If I have to ask again, I’ll feed you to
the mutants tonight in their holding cell instead of one of the usual captives.”

The man toe-shuffled forward, his face
bleached white with terror as he reached for the leather restraint on the ankle.
After releasing the buckle with a trembling hand, he proceeded up to the right
wrist cuff and hastily fumbled with the latch then darted back to the corner
behind a cluttered desk.

Mitchell stood two feet from the creature,
which he kept feeding intermittent shocks to while removing a Glock from his
shoulder holster.

The mutant, clad only in shredded jeans,
slowly pivoted off the table and stood up as if each limb was tethered from
invisible lines dangling from the ceiling. It faced the assistant and released
a guttural hiss, its foul breath coning out towards the terrified man. The
mutant began spooling out thick strands of drool over its blood-stained lips
and its chest pumped furiously. It reached its sinewy arms up, trying to paw at
the man in the distance but Mitchell kept his electronic grasp firm. Finally,
Mitchell released his fingers from the remote control and the creature rushed
forward in one swift motion as if yanked by a rope around its waist. Just as it
lunged at the throat of the shrieking man, Mitchell stunned it again. The
creature went erect with its limbs by its side as if a giant rod had just been
driven through its center, planting it firmly to the ground. Its entire body
shuddered as the artificial device restrained its predatory rage.

“Please, don’t hurt him. He’s my only
assistant,” bleated Holcomb.

The words didn’t even register in
Mitchell’s mind. His cheeks were flaring and his pupils dilating as he marveled
at the streamlined musculature of beast. He moved beside it, his face inches
from the creature, studying the grotesque shape from top to bottom like a
collector of artifacts who has just happened across a rare find.

As Mitchell encircled the semi-submissive
beast, his eyes narrowed and a slight smile formed in the corner of his mouth.
“If I had a hundred of you, I would own the northwest. A thousand and this
country would be mine. An army befitting the new world.” He stood face-to-face
with it as he grinned. “Think of what could be accomplished—like Rome under
Caesar.”

He stepped back and yelled towards the hallway,
“Guards.”

The door creaked open and the men entered.
“Collar this one and have it taken below with the others.” He glanced back at
the mutant, which was still frozen as Mitchell held his fingers on the remote.

“Excellent work, Doctor. Perhaps your
usefulness will be your salvation after all.”

Chapter 11

Six days after their return from
Sacramento, Carlie and Duncan were flying to a small military outpost near the
town of Toppenish in south-central Washington to meet with the commander at his
request for more security measures. This facility represented the farthest base
that was under the directives of Fort Lewis and the southernmost base near the
Grand Coulee Dam. Accompanying them in the Blackhawk were two of Duncan’s men
and Eliza. Carlie rarely traveled without her young protégé and she thought the
woman’s knowledge of the region might be of use since Yakima was only twenty
miles to the north. Eliza had discussed with her the mountain encampment she
had taken refuge in and the surrounding terrain. During the ensuing months
since her return, Eliza had recounted her fond memories of living in the woods
and the small community of survivors that had taken her in.

Carlie glanced out the side window at the
snow-covered terrain, glad to be away for a while from the awkward tension
between her and Shane. She pulled back and leaned across to Duncan. “So you
know the commander where we’re headed?”

“Mike Rollins—we went through ranger
school together long ago.” He leaned back and wriggled his head around,
stretching his neck under the weight of his tactical vest. “I should also
mention that Mike was always notorious for having the best home-brewed beer,”
said Duncan. “I sure hope he still has some in reserve.”

“Now that would be warmly welcomed,” said
Carlie.

The radio crackled and the voice of Mike
came into their earpieces.

“Rollins here, we’re waiting. What is your
ETA?” said the voice, which sounded feeble.

“We’re just coming up on McKenzie
Mountains and should be at your base in twenty minutes,” Duncan said.

“And you have your tactical specialists? I
have an interesting dilemma to get their advice on.”

“Yes, I look forward to hearing your
report and catching up with you.”

When the two men finished talking, Carlie
leaned towards Duncan.

“I wonder why he’s in need of our tactical
personnel?”

“This is a pretty isolated outpost—he may
just need some additional advice on how to further fortify their location.”

Carlie shrugged her shoulders and settled
back into her seat, staring back out at the snow-enshrouded valleys below. It
had been a long winter and she was eager for the warmth of spring. She kept
reminding herself why she had formerly lived in Arizona and how she would one
day reside again in a warm climate unclaimed by the snow.
One day…
She
shook her head, wondering if there would ever come such a time when humans
could plan so far ahead and contemplate retirement.

 Carlie pulled her thoughts back to the
present as she saw Duncan and the other men readying their gear and preparing
to set down. He tapped her on the shoulder and pointed to the settlement nestled
between two mountains a few miles east.

“Looks quiet down there,” she said,
scanning the scattered buildings and surrounding terrain.

“They’ve been hit by a hard winter in
these parts so everyone’s probably holed up.”

The helicopter circled the outpost and
then swung in low to a helipad behind the main two-story command center. The
tinted windows on the building prevented any sign of movement from inside and
Carlie studied the immediate grounds instead.

There were eleven buildings spread out
amongst the 200 acres of open meadow. The entire compound was situated in a
u-shaped bowl with only one main road cutting through the thick swath of spruce
and pine trees. It was an ideal location for a command post, with protection on
three sides and a defensible chokepoint leading in. She looked down at the
dusting of snow on the helipad and noticed the absence of any tracks.

Mike’s barely audible voice came through
their earpieces again. “I’m just getting back in from a trek to our lookout
tower and will be with you shortly. Just walk into the command center and wait
in the control room.”

“Copy that,” said Duncan, grabbing his M4
and opening the sliding door. “He sounds like he’s under the weather—no
surprise living in this icebox of an outpost that we’ve got him in.”

Carlie followed him with the other men and
Eliza trailing behind them. The command center was a hundred yards ahead, its
steel double-doors fortified with metal plates bolted onto the core.

“Don’t you find it odd that there aren’t
any tracks around the entire area? Not even deer or rabbit,” she said.

Duncan paused before the steps leading up
to the entrance and scanned the terrain. He frowned and panned his head up at
the surrounding hills then back at the front door. As he extended his gloved
hand out to the round knob, he heard a faint but familiar whistling sound from
above growing in intensity.

Carlie craned her head up at the sky and gazed
around for answers.

“Mortar—take cover!” said Duncan.

Everyone’s eyes grew wide and they dropped
to a squat behind a cement retaining wall as a white-hot flash of light drove
into the helicopter. The explosion rocked the entire building, shattering out
the windows on the second floor above their heads. Carlie tucked her chin down
and pulled her parka hood in tighter around her face as shards rained upon
them. The Blackhawk was splintered into jagged fragments while the rotor and
rear fuselage came crashing down onto the helipad, flaming metal groaning and
hissing like the tongue of an orange viper.

“What the hell is this,” Duncan said,
staring at what was left of the two blackened corpses of the pilots inside the
burning wreck. He tapped his earpiece, switching over to a different frequency.
“Shark Tank, this is Hammerhead, do you copy?”

“Go ahead, Hammerhead,” said the woman’s
voice back at Fort Lewis.

“Aries Two has been compromised. Our helo
was just taken out and we are on foot. Request immediate evac at our position.”

There was a long pause on the other end.
“Extraction team inbound in two hours. We are retasking satellites and will
have intel on your location shortly.”

“Copy that.” He stood up and returned to
the front doors, testing the handle, which was locked. He glanced around the
area and saw a small barn twenty yards away near the treeline. He motioned for
everyone to follow him as they crouched and ran along the building past a row
of hedges and into the weathered structure. A heavy odor of hay and horse
droppings permeated the air inside and the walls were lined with lariats and
farrier’s tools.

“The messages requesting you and your team
to come here—those must have been staged,” said Carlie.

“Those were sent two days ago,” said
Duncan. “Someone must have breached the encrypted frequency for this outpost or
coerced Mike into supplying false intel to lure us here.”

“Where is everyone?” said Brinkman. “This
place had over forty personnel. There are no signs of a large-scale battle.”

The woman’s voice crackled into Duncan’s
earpiece again. “Hammerhead, be advised that we have movement of creatures
heading your way from the south. Estimates indicate around a hundred total.”

Duncan grimaced, sending a knowing look at
his team. The voice came back on. “We also show the heat signature of two human
beings in the medical clinic two-hundred meters to the north. One is very
faint, barely registering, and is supine. The other is hovering nearby, moving
back and forth.”

“Alright, we’re heading there now and will
take cover in that building if it’s defensible.”

“Copy that. We are also showing a group of
four individuals clustered in the forest to the southwest between the incoming
horde and then a few lone individuals scattered around the valley. All of the
latter appear to have spotting scopes.”

He tapped off his earpiece and looked at
the others. “Seems like they just wanted to trap us here and have the zombies
do the rest,” he said.

“This is a test,” said Carlie. “Your
tactical specialists, the elimination of the helo, those spotters. This is a
little fishbowl they have us in to study our operational protocols.”

“What’s your assessment?” said Duncan,
looking back at the two men.

“Agree with Carlie. This was too staged
and precise. They knew when we were coming and our immediate capabilities,”
said Kulovitz, a stocky man with red hair.

“They’ve got the high ground and control
the route out of here,” said Brinkman. “We either stay put until air support
arrives or risk heading into the forest to the northeast where the ridgelines
will afford us some protection to make a stand.”

Duncan mulled over their options and quickly
surveyed their escape routes again. “We need to get to the med building and see
about the survivors—if that’s what they are. We’ll have to make our stand here
on the main grounds.”

As they prepared to move, another whir of
mortar fire sang out above them. “Move,” shouted Duncan as the round tore into
the ground behind the barn.

“That was a deliberate miss,” said
Kulovitz. “With how precise they were with the helo, they could’ve dropped
another round right on our heads.”

“We need to take out that mortar team and
as many of the spotters as possible,” said Carlie. “Even if we make it to
medical, they could pound us with rounds and drive us out into the approaching
zombies.”

“Alright, you take Brinkman and Eliza with
you and see if you can remove those guys. Kulovitz and I will head to medical.”

They split into their respective groups
while the torrent of undead moving in on the compound could be heard on the
other side of the command center. The hungry flesh-eaters made their way over
the snow-encrusted road towards their location, drawn by the recent explosions.