The Dying of the Light (Book 3): Beginning (23 page)

“Don’t worry about it. Just a little trick I picked up from the general a few years back.”

Rachel’s step faltered for a moment. “The general, sir? You mean…”

“Sorry, Lieutenant. Not your dad. I meant
my
general, Frank Anderson.”

“Oh,” she said, disappointment clear in her voice.

“Though I did meet him once, your dad.”

“Oh?” she repeated, curiosity replacing the disappointment.

“Yep. He was a tough old bastard, but one of the smartest guys in the room, for sure.”

Rachel smiled, though she knew neither of the others would see it. “He was always like that.”

“He was a good man, Lieutenant. A good man.”

“Yes, sir,” she replied, and with a renewed spring in her step, they continued their march toward the waiting vehicles.

It wasn’t long before she spotted the top of the Stryker. It towered over the short shrubs that had grown up in some of the backyards on the residential street. They were far enough away that she couldn’t make out the men standing next to the vehicle, other than that they had on AEGIS uniforms. And that was enough for her.

Crouched in the bushes to avoid getting shot by their own men, Rachel looked over at Carson and realized he’d passed out at some point—an alarming thing when he’d had so much blood loss.

“When the hell did he pass out?” she asked Mac.

“I dunno, ma’am. I didn’t see it.” Mac grunted and shifted the weight of the sergeant. “I was too busy hauling his heavy ass down the street.”

“Dammit, Mac!” She held two fingers to Carson’s neck and checked for his pulse, then released the breath she’d held when she found one. Weak and irregular, but it was there. “We have to get him help, now.”

“Right, let’s do this,” Rachel said. It would’ve been so much easier if they had just been able to radio ahead, but for some reason, none of the radios they carried were working. Either there was some sort of jamming going on, or, worse, there was no one to receive them at all.

She cursed the radios and cupped her hands around her mouth as she turned back toward the remaining convoy vehicles. “Friendlies inbound, six o’clock!” She saw the turret guns on the Stryker swivel her direction, but they didn’t fire. Several of the men shouted, but she couldn’t understand them.

“Say again!” she called.

One of the men waved the others to silence and yelled again. “What’s the daycode?”

Rachel thanked God for standard field ops, which took over in the event of secure comm failure. She wracked her brain for a moment and then remembered the code.

“Blackbird Zeta Three!” she yelled.

“Confirmed,” he replied. “God, it’s good to see some friendlies,” he said when they approached closer. Rachel noted that his tattered uniform said HENLEY on the breast.

Rachel was relieved to see that both MTVs had made it more or less unscathed, with minor damage. They’d lost nearly their whole complement of Humvees, though. Both MTV drivers and their partners were alive with minor injuries. Add the two Stryker crew, Henley, Mac, Carson and her, and you had just nine friendlies left out of over twenty who’d started out from Bunker Seven.

She didn’t have time to mourn, though. Rachel helped Mac get the wounded Carson into the back of the Stryker on the metal grating. “Do you have any medical training?” she asked the airman.

“Just emergency stuff, ma’am. What’s wrong with him?” She grabbed the emergency kit mounted on a bulkhead and slid off the seat to crouch beside the sergeant.

“Severe wounds to the left leg, burns and cuts to the face and arms, probably a concussion.”

“I’ll do what I can, ma’am. Step back, please.” The airman grabbed a package of QuikClot from the kit and ripped it open. She poured the granulated mixture into the wound on Carson’s leg, and the sergeant’s eyes shot open. He screamed, and the airman clamped a hand over his mouth to muffle the sound.

She’d done all she could, so Rachel went and found Henley and Mac standing guard. “Get everyone moving. One of you to each MTV. Tell them to follow the Stryker. We’re outta here.” She turned to survey the burning ruin of Clayton, New Mexico.

“What about the others?” Henley asked.

Rachel was about to answer but saw movement and raised her rifle to her shoulder and fired as several zealots came out of the trees toward them. Henley and Mac took down some as well. The attackers were all finished before the big REAPR cannons even had a chance to track their targets.

Rachel grimaced. “They’re gone, and so are we if we don’t get out of here. Now
move
!”

Fifteen minutes later, they’d found an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of Clayton, several miles from the earlier fighting. They couldn’t have kept going anyway, not with their wounded in need of medical attention. The zealots would’ve chased them all down and overrun them with their much greater numbers.

Rachel hoped that Sergeant Carson agreed once he regained consciousness. She and her men closed the large doors behind the vehicles, then removed as many traces as they could of their passage outside. Rachel noticed a big sign that had fallen off the building years before and lay in the overgrown grass and shrubs.

What the hell was a Costco?

Though the tires had long gone flat, they were able to roll some of the derelict cars in the parking lot in front of the closed rollup doors. They’d had to use some fancy maneuvering to get the Stryker and the big MTVs inside without destroying part of the wall, but they’d done it. Now they had a somewhat secure hideout.

They’d worried about air quality when they’d opened the doors, but it was clear from the large holes in the roof that air circulation wasn’t a problem. That’s what time and the elements did to a building, Rachel supposed.

It took only a few minutes for the practiced troops to clear the warehouse and make sure any walkers had been put down. They only found three, mummified after twenty-plus years in the building and the high temperature of the New Mexico summers. Given the remnants of some campfires they also found, Rachel expected that some folks had hid out here but never left.

Of course, the place had long ago been looted of all useful items. All that was left were heavy or bulky items like barbecue grills and toilets and patio sets, not to mention all the laundry detergent you could ever need. She shook her head at the bulk of some of the items, dropping what had once been a Kirkland Signature tub of mayonnaise to the floor. She wasn’t old enough to have ever seen one of these stores when it was working, and the sheer scale of the place was daunting.

Rachel looked over at Sergeant Carson, lying on one of the scattered picnic tables at the front of the store.

“Ever shop at one of these, Sergeant?” she asked.

“Costco?” he said, coughing. “Just how fucking old do you think I am, Lieutenant?”

She laughed. “I’ll take that as a no, then.”

“I was three on Z-Day,” he said. “I don’t remember a damn thing from before the bunker. Are we set?”

She nodded. “Yes, sir. All entry points secured. We’ll take shifts up on the roof for watches.”

“Be careful up there. This building is older than shit and hasn’t been maintained. Don’t want anyone falling through the fucking roof. Those holes could get bigger any moment.”

“Roger that, sir. We’ll take something heavy up there and throw it ahead of us, find a safe way to the edge.”

“Good idea. You could also look at the roof from down here to find the most rusted sections.”

Rachel blushed with embarrassment. “Uh, yes, sir.”

Carson chuckled, then winced. “Ow, don’t make me laugh.” He turned to the Stryker airman who’d tended his wounds. “Charlie, any luck with the radio?”

“No, sir. No reply. We’re transmitting, but it’s likely not getting through the structure, sir.”

“Can we make it portable? Get it out of the Stryker?”

“Well, sir…” Charlie hesitated. “I can try, but I don’t know…” The airman hesitated again.

“What is it, Charlie?” Carson asked, annoyance plain on his face.

“This place, sir. Are we sure it was the right call to bring us here?”

Carson snorted. “Not much for tactics, are you, Airman? A Costco is eminently defensible. Thick, high walls, lots of room inside, probably some water somewhere, and best of all, high vantage for recon. It’s basically a modern castle. Perfect for withstanding a siege, which is really the only option when faced with an overwhelming force. No, this is a great location to hole up and wait for reinforcements.”

Carson noticed Rachel’s half-smile but ignored it. “You can work on that radio tomorrow. Everyone get some rack, right now. No one’s going to attack tonight.” When Rachel gave him a look, he shook his head. “These guys aren’t smart enough to come at us at night. They’ve been fighting all day like we have, and I’m willing to bet they’ll wait until daybreak to make their move. We gave ‘em hell today.”

He leaned back against the makeshift pillow they’d made out of the remnants of an old dog bed. “On second thought, might not be a bad idea to set a watch after all.” He closed his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest. “Oh, and if anyone finds a can of Coke, it’s mine.”

Church Forces Staging Area
Outside Clayton, New Mexico

Brother Ezekiel gazed over the men assembled before him in ragged groups and around the vehicles. The hot late-afternoon sun beat down upon them, and the breeze did little to ease the temperature. His long experience in the deserts of New Mexico had left him inured to the heat, though, and he ignored the complaints of the men around him as best he could.

“They have taken refuge inside one of the ancient structures, Brother Ezekiel,” the man standing next to him said. “The archbishop has seen fit to place you in command of this operation. What are your orders?”

Ezekiel took a deep breath as he tried to maintain his composure in the face of the man’s astounding idiocy. Brother Benjamin was, as Ezekiel’s grandmother would’ve put it, “not the sharpest knife in the drawer.” Still, he was loyal and devout, two qualities Ezekiel prized. It was unfortunate how rarely they were paired with intelligence.

“Our men are in position, yes?” he asked.

“Indeed, Brother. They await divine instruction.”

There would be little divinity in the massacre of these men and women, though it was, of course, necessary. The balance of the righteous versus the infidels would be in their favor somewhat, but ultimately, it didn’t make much difference. All would need to die before the world would be truly cleansed.

He was thankful for the extra training imparted by the archbishop’s recently-arrived representatives. It would be helpful in the coming attack, but he was curious about where the men had learned these new skills. Even under the influence of a strong tea, spiked with more than a little prohibited white lightning, they would only mumble inanities. The most lucid had said something about a new influence on their leader but nothing of substance.

He’d take what he could get. Even without the extra training, he and his people had been on the surface for the last twenty years, not cowering in bunkers like frightened mice. They knew how to deal with the elements and the remnants of the mostly-extinct infidel civilization.

“Have our people encountered any of the Seraphim?” Ezekiel asked.

Benjamin shook his head. “No, Brother. None have been sighted. Shall we look for them?”

“No. But round up as many of the Cleansed as you can and set them against the building where the infidels hide like rats. The Cleansed will help us find any weak points in their defenses, which the Brethren will then take advantage of.”

“I see,” Benjamin said.

Ezekiel doubted that but chose not to say so. He would pray for their creator’s light to shine on the man during his nightly prayers. In the meantime, he would deal with the situation at hand. The infidels must be eradicated. He turned to Benjamin with a questioning look. “Well?”

“Oh, you meant now?” Benjamin asked.

“One… two… three…” Ezekiel muttered under his breath as he closed his eyes. Opening them once more, he looked back at the other man. “Yes, Brother, I meant now. Go, find the Cleansed.”

“At once, my brother.”

Benjamin left the improvised tent that had been set up in their staging area and issued orders to the brethren that were waiting. Ezekiel lifted the far-seers, or binoculars as he called them, and looked at the building some distance away. He knew they were likely watching him in return, but it made no difference.

In a siege, the besieged were always at a disadvantage, assuming they didn’t have access to unlimited resources. In this case, while they had the entirety of a warehouse shopping club to work with, those resources had been sitting there rotting for twenty-five years. They might be unbelievably lucky and find some unspoiled water, but their ammunition would run out. And Ezekiel could keep this up for as long as was necessary.

Ezekiel was nothing if not patient. The Creator had deigned to bless him with this gift, among many others, including the foresight to know that as long as he might be able to keep them within the structure, their friends would no doubt come looking for them.

“Best they find only bones and ash,” he muttered. “Bones and ash.”

Marine Corps Base Quantico
Quantico, VA
Z-Day + 23 years

Admiral Jeremiah Graves coughed and clapped his hands for warmth in the early-morning chill coming off the water. The sounds of equipment rumbling and men shouting in the distance would normally have had him edgy, but his Hunters had already cleared the few walkers from the base and were maintaining a perimeter.

Their trip to Bunker Five was starting out well, but Graves knew enough never to say those words out loud. He’d sooner bite his tongue off than invite the fickle hand of fate into this operation. Finding the codes to launch the missiles was not something to joke around about. He just hoped he wouldn’t lose too many of his men.

“Poor bastard,” he whispered to himself as he glanced once more at the remains of the walker at his feet. At least, he could only assume it had been a walker. From the hole smashed in the skull and the sign drawn in paint on the roof, he gathered that this had been the last stand of some, well, poor bastard. Who knew when or how he’d been bitten, if he had at all and not just killed himself.