The Dying of the Light (Book 3): Beginning (45 page)

He checked his watch. Another three hours to go before there was any chance of their reinforcements being in secure radio range. He activated his shoulder mic.

“Charlie, can you try them again? See if they can pick us up this time?” There’d been no response several hours back when he’d attempted to transmit to the reinforcement convoy. Either they couldn’t pick up the transmission with their smaller equipment or it was damaged and couldn’t transmit back or who the hell knew what. But they were hopefully a couple hundred miles closer now, so it was worth another try.

“I’ll give it a shot, sir,” Charlie said.

“Lima Three, come in.” It was time to check in with the roving patrol he’d set up, not that he expected anything different on the other sides of the building.

“Go for Lima Three.”

“What’s your status, over?”

“Five by five. No incursions, no sign of the zealots other than the occasional blood bomb.”

“One shot at us up here a moment ago, so keep an eye out. That goes for all teams. They’re getting antsy out there, just as we are. Someone’s bound to make a mistake sooner or later. It won’t be us. Clear?”

A round of acknowledgements came from the men.

“Got them briefly, sir.” Charlie’s voice was strained. She’d been on the roof for hours in the hot sun. Carson would’ve sent someone up there to relieve her, but no one else knew the comm systems like Charlie. She was their best chance.

“Briefly?” Carson asked.

“Yes, sir. Mostly static, but I caught the gist. They’re somewhere near Borger, Texas, about two hours out. And get this, Sarge… Captain Anderson is leading the convoy.”

“No shit? Well, I’ll be damned. I bet his mama ain’t happy about that.”

“Probably not, sir.”

Rachel ran up and eyed the men guarding the main entrance before turning to Carson. “Except for the walkers, it’s all quiet, so I thought I’d take a moment to check in here. How’s the leg? And you got shot at?”

He grunted. “Hurts like a bitch. Just changed the bandage ten minutes ago. We’re out of morphine, or so they tell me. Makes me loopy anyway.” He limped behind the membership counter and eased himself down onto one of the chairs they’d scrounged from the cashier’s lounge. He propped his leg up on another. From this position, he’d have maximum coverage but still get the weight off his injured leg. “Someone took a potshot as I looked out the window. Nothing to worry about. They’re all hunkered down out there.”

“Who’s Captain Anderson?” she asked as she rested her rifle on the counter. “Sounded like you were surprised he was part of the team.”

“Captain Donald Anderson is the XO for his father, General Frank Anderson. He’s the number two man in our bunker.”

“What the hell is he doing leading this expedition? Isn’t the general in Iowa with the main force there?”

“That was exactly what I thought, and yes, he is. So both the CO and XO of Bunker Eight are hundreds of miles away from their posts. At the same time.” He shook his head. “And Morena—that’s the general’s wife and the captain’s mother—is likely throwing a fit about it. Knowing the captain, though, I doubt he listened to her. Once he’s made his mind up…” He shook his head. “I guess I can kinda see why too. That cargo is mighty damn important. He wouldn’t trust it to anyone else.”

Rachel snorted. “Men.”

Carson chuckled. “This one time, I’ll agree with you on that, Lieutenant. Now get back to—”

“Contact north. Six hostiles. We are taking fire.”

They could just hear the chatter of gunfire at the opposite end of the building, and Rachel raced away to take up positions.

“Report, north side,” Carson said. “Any vehicles?”

“One, sir. Some sort of truck. Looks reinforced, but it’s not moving. Just pulled up.”

Carson whistled at one of the men stationed at his position and motioned to the door. “Cruz, get up there and check it out. I don’t care about walkers. Lemme know if there are any vehicles.”

The soldier leapt up and moved to the side of the regular door, then glanced quick through the small window before pulling back. A couple more times, and he nodded at Carson. “At least three trucks—pickups. Reinforced fronts. Two or three guys in the back of each, armed. Maybe ten on foot.”

Carson sighed. “Be careful what you wish for. Charlie, see if you can raise Captain Anderson again, let him know to pour it on. We’re about to be engaged.” He paused, then spoke again. “Strike team, Romeo Six.”

“Here, sir.”

“They’re getting ready. Estimate fifteen to twenty on north and south sides, with vehicles. You are green to Station Three.”

“Roger that, Romeo. Moving to Station Three. Out.”

Carson hefted his rifle and dropped his leg off the chair. He propped it up inside the counter, where he’d removed several drawers. The counter wouldn’t provide much cover, but it was better than nothing. It would also help steady his aim. The other men had fortified the entrance with the smaller shelving they’d been able to move and had blocked one entrance off completely after piling fifty or so old tires around it.

They’d knocked apart the vision center counter and used various other materials to create improvised spike strips for the floor and to provide some cover for themselves. One truck might make it inside, but as soon as it did, it would become immobile dead weight, blocking the entrance for any other vehicles and most of the men. The men at the north side had done the same, where it didn’t interfere with the exit for the Stryker and the MTVs with their precious cargo.

They’d done the best they could. Now it was up to Mac and the strike team to give them the edge they so desperately needed.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Larry’s Auto Parts
Clayton, New Mexico

The dry and crumbling rubber in this store was making Mac’s nose itch. He’d already sneezed half a dozen times in the last few minutes, and he was sick of it.

“Strike team, Romeo Six.”

“Here, sir,” Mac said, looking toward Sheridan and his other men.

“They’re getting ready. Estimate fifteen to twenty on north and south sides, with vehicles. You are green to Station Three.”

“Roger that, Romeo. Moving to Station Three. Out.” He motioned to the other members of his team, and they came in close.

“Here’s the deal. We’ve got Moses and Houseman still down there, and as soon as we move, they’re coming up to take the north side of the hotel. Sheridan, you’re our best shot, so I want you here on the roof on overwatch. The rest of us will take out the fucknuts on the ground and inside the hotel, meeting in the middle. Everyone clear?”

No one raised any questions, and he hadn’t expected them to. “Move out.”

Sheridan moved to the ladder leading to the roof and was up it and gone before Mac and the other two were at the front door of the store. They crouched and looked for patrols. Mac spotted movement in the ground floor of the old hotel through the filthy windows of both buildings.

“Movement in the hotel. Sheridan, do you have a shot?”

“Negative, no clear shot.”

“Roger that. Houseman, how copy?”

The tone of the soldier’s reply was strange, echoing with the background reverb of the storm sewer. “Solid copy.”

“You are clear to engage. Move out.”

“Roger. Moving out.” Mac saw the manhole cover move up and slide over, and as the two soldiers came up in a crouch, Mac and his team moved through the front doors. They ran across the street in a crouch and made it almost to the hotel before there was any reaction from inside.

Gunfire from within the hotel shattered the windows and sprayed the approaching soldiers with shards of glass. They ignored them and took cover as best they could against the aging walls and stone facade of the building. Mac signaled that he would go around the side, and the other two gave him cover. More gunfire came from the north side of the building, and he knew that Moses and Houseman had moved inside and were proceeding on their mission.

“Make ‘em cry for their mamas,” Mac said with a smile. The other soldiers moved inside as he turned the corner.

“Tango down,” the voice of Sheridan said in his ear. Or was it Houseman? It made no difference, as the calls continued.

He rounded the corner and noted the canopy that had been set up just outside the side entrance of the hotel. There was a small side table with a pitcher of water, a glass, and a rickety folding chair. The ground dipped off to the northeast, putting the canopy and table on the edge of some sort of drainage channel. He turned back and approached the side door and was ready for it to swing open and disgorge zealots fleeing the carnage inside.

A burning pain erupted in his side and his left arm. The force of the two impacts spun him around, and he saw a man in now-stained white robes, of all things. The man crouched and continued to fire at him from behind the side table.

“Fucker!” he yelled and fired back. The man dropped to the ground for cover. Mac crabbed backward to the wall, swung his numb left arm into his lap, and held his rifle out with one hand. The weight of the rifle threw off his aim some, but he was strong enough to keep the gun pointed in the right direction, and he was good enough to keep the man’s face in the dirt.

He heard a loud explosion from the rooftop of the hotel and a voice in his ear. “Target down. Repeat, sniper down.”

“Good!” Mac yelled as he dropped the rifle and pulled his pistol. “Now come get me!” He continued firing. His shots were much more accurate with the pistol, and he heard a yelp from the ground behind the table.

“Get the fuck up, you crazy son of a bitch! Leave your fucking gun on the ground or the next one goes through your skull!”

The firing had stopped, and so Mac heard the man’s words without hindrance.

“I will join my Lord in Heaven, infidel. You and the rest of your ilk will be cleansed from the Earth, as it was foretold by His Prophet on Earth, the Reverend Wright.”

The man stood up, no gun in his hand, and though it took everything he had, Mac managed not to shoot him. “Come closer, maggot.”

The man was older and had been around since before Z-Day, if Mac had to guess. His short-cropped beard and hair were white, as white as his robes had been a few moments before. A big wooden crucifix hung from his neck, and he appeared calm, his hands clasped before him.

Houseman, Moses, and the other two slammed through the side door and surrounded the man, ready to blow his head off. They settled for forcing him to his knees. Houseman—the tallest, widest black man that Mac had ever seen—came over and helped Mac to his feet. Mac holstered his pistol and coughed.

“Medic!” Houseman shouted, and the medic slung his rifle and brought out his pack. He made Mac sit in the chair under the canopy. They heard a noise, and everyone but Moses turned to see Sheridan trot up. Moses kept his gun on the zealot.

Mac turned back to look at him as the medic treated his bullet wounds.

“Through and through on the arm, sir, and a lucky graze on the side. Could’ve been much worse.”

Mac grunted at the news but didn’t turn his gaze from the zealot, who was watching him as well. “What’s your name?” Mac asked.

The man’s face never wavered, and Mac wasn’t sure he was even blinking. “I am known to the Brethren as Ezekiel.”

“Maybe so, but I bet that wasn’t your name before. You’re definitely old enough to have been around before Z-Day, and I’m betting you’re one of those guys who was a drone. Probably corporate, faceless, easily replaced. Disposable.” His tone was not kind.

Ezekiel compensated, but the flash of anger that flew across his face told Mac he’d scored a hit, if a small one.

“Figures. A little man turned into a big one after he discovered a knack for manipulating morons. Well, you’re not that big anymore. Now you’re ours.”

“You may torture me, kill me, throw me to the Cleansed as you will, infidel,” Ezekiel said, his voice only a little strained. “For my Lord will welcome me with open arms, knowing I did all I could to cleanse the infidels and unbelievers from His world. Genesis 7:21-23.”

Mac laughed. “‘And all flesh died that moved upon the Earth, every creeping thing, and every man, and every living substance was destroyed.’ Except for Noah, of course.”

Ezekiel’s brow furrowed as he absorbed this response.

“What, you thought you were the only ones who could memorize Bible verses? Or the only ones who believed?”

Mac stood, walked over, and crouched down to look Ezekiel in the eye. “Here’s one for you,
Brother
. Matthew 10:34.”

Ezekiel’s eyes widened. “‘Think not that I am come to send peace on Earth. I came not to send peace, but a sword.’”

“Smart guy, this one,” Mac said as he glanced at Moses.

Both men were taken aback when Ezekiel began to laugh. “Did you really think, this group of unbelievers, that you and your people were that important? That they would send someone important to bring you to our Lord or banish you from this Earth? We are more powerful than you can comprehend, fool. Why, even now, our people are…” Ezekiel ceased his chuckle and looked away with a shake of his head.

Mac grew uneasy. Ezekiel was far too calm, too okay with being captured. Something else was going on here. “Well, don’t stop now, zealot! Go on, finish your rant. What do you mean, ‘Even now our people are…’?”

Ezekiel shook his head. “It matters not. The Church will avenge my death even as I rise to new life. We will crush you and your ilk. Ezekiel 35:8, infidel.”

“You’re not filling any mountains with our slain, asshole.” Mac shook his head. “Oh, you poor bastard. I’m not going to kill you. Far from it. Where’d I hit you? Check him out, Moses.”

Moses’s eyes never wavered from Ezekiel’s face. “Right hand, sir.”

“Is it serious?”

“No, sir. He’s covering it with his other hand.”

“Take a look at him once he’s trussed and ready,” Mac said to the medic, who nodded.

Mac looked back at Ezekiel. “We’re not going to kill you, Brother Ezekiel. We’re going to take you with us. And when we get where we’re going, you’re going to tell us everything you know, especially whatever you were going to say just now.”