Finest Hour (31 page)

“Only to know who it was that fought with such spirit.”

“And now what?”

He sighed. “Now they will come for you. There’s really no other way this can end. Make peace with
your
god, Marshal. You and your beast will be dead in a few seconds.”

Mason brought his pistol up as he tried to key in on where the man might be standing. He wasn’t above scattering a few shots across the front of the building if it offered a chance to cut the head off the snake. As he watched Bowie pace back and forth near the door, he changed his mind. Even if he killed Colonel Dixon, the infected would still come for them. And he wasn’t ready to die just yet, let alone see Bowie torn to pieces.

He looked down at the box of M67 grenades. They were a potential game changer. The problem was that if one detonated inside the igloo, both he and Bowie would be killed for sure. Even if they fled to the rear of the building, the concussive blast would rupture their eardrums and likely bring the whole structure down on top of them.

Still, he thought, there might be a way to use them as a means of escape.

Unsure of how many rounds remained, Mason dropped the current magazine, slapped in a fresh one, and holstered the weapon.

“Bowie!” he shouted.

The dog’s head whipped around.

“To me!”

As Bowie bolted for Mason, the horde began pushing their way into the building. A dozen hands ripped at the sliding door, collapsing the corrugated steel as it slowly pulled upward. Others crowded through the service door, shoving bodies and carts from their path. Unlike their earlier advances, nothing would stop the vile creatures from having their prize.

Mason picked up three of the M67s, stuffing two into his shirt and popping the safety clip off the third. As soon as Bowie slid up next to him, he tore out the pull ring and rolled the grenade along the concrete floor. It was a high stakes game of bowling. Thankfully, the grenade rolled between one of the men’s legs, went under the sliding door, and tumbled down the ramp before finally detonating.

The explosion shook the air like two runaway locomotives colliding. The resulting shockwave reflected off the blast wall, ripping apart Colonel Dixon and a dozen of his bloodthirsty followers. Splinters of bone shot in every direction, acting as deadly shrapnel to maim many more.

The igloo’s front wall buckled, and Mason stumbled back, disoriented. As the world slowly came back into focus, he steadied himself on the cart of ammunition. Bowie stood next to him, barking, but it was barely discernible above the shrieks.

“Let’s go!” he shouted, his voice sounding strange to his ears.

As the front wall teetered inward, Mason and Bowie raced to the back of the building. The vent was still intact, and thankfully he saw no one outside waiting to eat them. Mason spun around and kicked the panel with his heel. One corner of the vent tore free. He kicked it again, and this time the vent fell flat onto the dirt outside. He shoved Bowie through before dropping to his knees and crawling out after him.

The rear of the building was buttressed by the large hill, and for the moment, they were completely alone. He raced to the top with Bowie chasing at his heels, barking like they were on their way to throw a Frisbee. Only a dog, thought Mason, could shift so quickly from fighting a horde of the infected to playing a good game of chase.

From the top of the hill, the harsh reality of their situation became clear. Dozens of the infected were overrunning the building, clawing their way in through the collapsed wall. Several were already squirming out through the back vent and many more were racing around the sides of the building. The enemy was coming.

Mason turned and looked out across the dark field. He could just make out the outline of trees in the distance. While he considered himself reasonably fleet of foot, there was little chance of outrunning an army of maniacs set for blood.

His eyes drifted up to the water tower. The bottom of the huge spherical tank was a hundred feet in the air and supported by six steel poles. Centered between the legs was a twelve-inch diameter pipe that connected to an underground water distribution network. What was most interesting was the narrow walkway skirting the middle of the tank. If they could get up there, numbers would no longer matter, not until he ran out of ammunition, anyway. As King Leonidas and his brave three hundred Spartans had demonstrated, a narrow passage could be held against even the largest of armies.

Mason took a deep breath and looked over at Bowie.

“I’m afraid this isn’t going to be fun for either of us.”

Bowie inched closer, both of them listening to the sounds of the infected gathering at the bottom of the hill.

Mason pulled the M4 off his shoulder and dropped it to the ground. What he had in mind was going to be hard enough without trying to lug a rifle along. He stepped close to Bowie and dropped down to one knee. Before Bowie knew what was happening, Mason bent his head under the dog’s midsection and hoisted him onto his shoulders. At one hundred and forty pounds, it felt he was like carrying a soldier off the battlefield.

Bowie wriggled and tried to get down.

“It’s all right, boy,” he said, reaching up to pat him. “Trust me.”

The dog quieted and reluctantly settled against him.

Mason stumbled over to the ladder and looked up. It was a hell of a long way to the top. He took a deep breath.

“Here we go.”

He grabbed the cold circular rungs, still wet from the recent rain, and started climbing. Each rung was exactly twelve inches from the next one, and progress was painfully slow. Before he was even halfway up, he felt the unmistakable vibrations of others mounting the ladder below. He didn’t trust himself to let go with his strong hand, so he leaned in and looped his right arm around the rung. Then he reached across and drew his Supergrade with his left hand.

Bracing himself against the ladder, he pointed the muzzle down and fired three quick shots, all three striking the lead man and sending him tumbling down to take out the other climbers. While Mason couldn’t possibly hope to stand and fight while hanging one-armed with a massive dog over his shoulders, he wanted to deliver a message:
Following me up the ladder is not without consequences.

Bowie shifted a little, and Mason frantically grabbed the rung with both hands, nearly dropping his Supergrade in the process. He took a deep breath to steady himself before carefully holstering the pistol.

“I know you’re scared,” he said in a soft voice. “But I need you to hold still. It’s a long way down, and I don’t want to drop you.”

Bowie swung his huge head up and nuzzled Mason’s face. After a moment, he calmed and settled back across his shoulders.

One rung at a time, Mason pulled them up the ladder. Twice he had to rest, but neither time did he dare to draw his weapon. He would deal with the enemy once he got to a better fighting position.

When Mason finally reached the top, he was out of breath and so fatigued that he could do little more than fall sideways onto the narrow walkway. Bowie wriggled free and began testing his footing on the metal grating. When he was confident that he wasn’t going to fall through, he turned back and began licking his master’s face.

“I’m coming,” Mason wheezed, dragging himself onto the platform.

Still on his knees, he drew his Supergrade and leaned back over the ladder. A long line of the infected were clawing their way higher. He sighted on the first man and squeezed off a round. The man jerked but refused to let go of the rung. Mason fired again, this time sending the man swan-diving away from the ladder.

Bowie inched closer and lay down beside him. Thankfully, the dog seemed to have no fear of heights. Mason hugged him with his free arm, keeping the other aimed down the ladder. He fired twice more, knocking another of the infected off the ladder.

As his magazine emptied, Mason did a slow and careful reload. This was no longer a game of speed but one of accuracy. Every bullet had to hit its mark. As he pressed in the fresh magazine, Bowie whined softly.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I still have ten magazines, not to mention these babies.” He patted the two grenades stuffed into his shirt. “Believe me, they’ll pay a hell of a price.”

Even with seventy rounds and two grenades, Mason understood that he and Bowie had no chance of actually winning the fight. There were simply too many of them. All he could hope to do was kill enough of them that they would eventually give up—if such a thing were even possible.

For the next five minutes, he shot one after another as they tried to ascend the water tower. Nearly every shot found its mark, and most sent yet another body to the ground. Some died; others got back to their feet, eager to take another turn on the ladder. As Mason slapped in his last magazine, he came to accept that his enemy was incapable of being routed by mere gunfire. If they felt any fear at all, it was little more than a whisper when compared to the roar of their rage.

He climbed to his feet and gave Bowie a quick pat, hoping to reassure him.

“We’re not done yet,” he said, holstering his pistol and retrieving the two grenades from his shirt. “It’s time for the nuclear option.”

With a grenade in each hand, he flipped off the safety clips and used his mouth to extract the two pull rings. As he spat them out, he let the safety levers fly free and tossed one grenade directly in line with the ladder and the second one out and away. The idea was simple enough—kill as many of the infected as possible while simultaneously destroying the ladder. They couldn’t climb what wasn’t there.

As the grenades tumbled through the air, Mason wrestled Bowie to the walkway, doing his best to cover both of their ears. When the grenades finally went off, the air boomed and shook like they were standing in the middle of a thunderhead. Bowie yelped in fear but made no effort to stand up.

Nearly two dozen of the infected were obliterated, bones and blood flying in every direction. The ladder, too, was blasted into a twisted mangle of steel. Unfortunately, the explosions also severed one of the poles that supported the water tank. Almost immediately, the tower started to tip. It was slow at first, a moaning creak, followed by a slight lurch to one side. But it didn’t stop there. The infected clambered up the legs, jerking and pulling as they tried to finish what the grenades had started. The structure began to collapse, its legs crumpling and folding in on themselves. Gravity would not be denied.

Mason clung to the railing with one arm while desperately gripping Bowie with the other. The tower teetered on the verge of collapse, its remaining legs slowly buckling under the incredible weight of the water. Mason prepared himself for the inevitable. They were going down into the fray, and it sure as hell wasn’t going to be a soft landing.

A series of bright orange flashes suddenly lit the field behind them. Several of the infected hanging from the tower fell to the ground, screaming in pain. More flashes were followed by more of the infected dropping. Mason had no time to make sense of what was happening. Two of the tower’s legs gave way, and the huge tank tipped toward the ground.

“Get ready!” he shouted.

An instant before the tank crashed to the ground, Mason and Bowie jumped. To be fair, it was more of a frantic leap than a proper “get to your feet and spring to safety” kind of thing. They tumbled across the wet grass as the water tank ruptured behind them. A million gallons of water spilled in every direction, sending a tremendous six-foot wave of water smashing against them. Tumbling head over heels, Mason finally came to rest in a giant puddle of mud nearly thirty yards from the tower. Bowie lay nearby, dazed and soaked to the bone.

Mason shook his head and struggled to get to his feet, his Supergrade sliding free of its holster. He looked left and then right. Pandemonium had engulfed the battlefield. The infected had divided into two groups, some racing toward the faceless enemy that advanced across the field, others scouring the water tank for signs of their prey.

One of the infected caught sight of him and screamed, gnashing his teeth as he charged forward. Mason aimed, fired, and watched as the man’s head exploded in a spray of blood. More of the infected turned toward him. He planted his feet and worked front to back, one bullet for each of the infected, figuring that even if it didn’t kill them, it would weaken them enough for what was destined to become hand-to-hand combat. Within seconds, the Supergrade’s slide locked to the rear one final time.

Still stunned by the tidal wave of water, Bowie struggled to get to his feet. A short, stocky man tackled him, flailing the dog with his powerful hands. Bowie snapped and snarled, but there was little behind either.

Mason holstered the Supergrade and drew his hunting knife. By God, no one got away with hurting Bowie. He lunged forward, stabbing the blade out in front of him. As the tip pierced the man’s neck, he stumbled back, desperately trying to escape the sting of the razor-sharp steel. But some sins were simply unforgivable. Mason grabbed his hair and ripped the blade out through the front of his throat.

As the infected man toppled sideways, Mason spun around, flicking an arc of blood out into the air as he prepared for the next attacker. To his surprise, the infected near the ruptured water tank were now retreating back toward the igloo.