The Dying of the Light (Book 3): Beginning (52 page)

“Steady, Private,” he said, noting the man’s rank from his uniform. “I’m one of the good guys.” He would’ve smiled, but Tom had told him to stop—it just freaked people out.

The private gulped air and tried to steady himself. “Sorry, sir, it’s just…”

“With everything going on outside, you didn’t know who I was, I startled you, I shouldn’t sneak up on people, etc. Look, we don’t have time for this. Marquez sent me to relieve you. Said he needed you for something.”

The private licked his lips. “Needed me for… something, sir?”

“I didn’t ask,
Private
,” Masters said. “He didn’t tell, and I didn’t ask. I’d suggest you get moving. I’ve got this.”

“Yes… uh, yes, sir,” the soldier stammered and headed for the exit.

“Private,” Masters said as he held out a hand. “The keys.”

The private shook his head and took the keys off his belt. “Sorry, sir. Here you go.”

“Now go!”

The soldier ran for the exit, glad to be away from the creepy captain who moved too fast and too quiet.

He waited until the man had left, then Masters approached the brig and unlocked the door after only two tries on the four keys the stammering private had left him. He covered the man on the bunk with his rifle as he swung the door open and stepped inside. The prisoner sat up, back against the wall, eyebrows raised but silent.

“Mr. Mancuso, it’s time we got you out of here.”

Des Moines International Airport

Reynolds looked at the small squad of men he had with him. They’d taken cover behind some equipment as Church forces rolled and ran up from the south side. The teams on the east side had all but finished with the walkers there and would be joining them soon. He’d ordered the Strykers to hold off the western attack, since that was where the fighting was heaviest. Still, he couldn’t help but wish for one of them now.

He popped up over the equipment and fired a few rounds at an advancing zealot, taking him down just as yet another pickup broke through the tree line. That drew the fire of another squad several hundred yards away, also hunkered down in cover. The truck’s engine exploded under the withering fusillade, and the burning husk rolled for a few more yards, then stopped.

“Contact east. Walkers!” one of his men yelled.

Reynolds and the others turned to see fifteen or twenty walkers emerge from the brush at the airport’s edge and shamble their way. He aimed, took a breath, and fired. One down. Aimed and fired. Aimed and fired.

It wasn’t long before the walkers were all dead—finally, this time—and the attacks slowed to a trickle, then tapered off. He wondered at their good fortune, but maybe they’d just had enough.

His thoughts were interrupted by a scream from the men to the west, and one of his squad shouted, “Runners!” A quick count showed five or six of the deranged undead teenagers attacking the squad.

Reynolds ejected the now-spent magazine from his rifle and grabbed a fresh one from his pocket, tapping it on his helmet before loading it into the weapon. You never knew when good luck might save your life, after all.

The others fired at the runners as they approached, and he saw that they’d already taken down at least one or two of the men to the west. He’d forgotten how fast these damned things were and missed several times as the undead came his way, and he was out of ammo by the time the last one got close. He stepped past the last man in his line to cold-cock the creature with the butt of his rifle, then slammed it over and over again into the thing’s head until it stopped twitching.

Covered from the waist down in runner blood and glad as ever for their mandatory eye protection, he turned back to that last man. “Maybe we need to get you out on the range, soldier. Your reload speed is a little lacking.”

The marine stood up and nodded. “Sir, yes, sir,” he said with a glance at the mess at the major’s feet. “Thank you, si—”

The sound of the bullet striking the side of the plane was the first indication that something was wrong. The crack of the shot came a moment later, and Reynolds was amazed at the size of the hole in the plane’s fuselage.

“What is it, Marine?” Reynolds asked as he watched the man’s face go white.

“Medic! Medic!” the marine screamed into his mic as the other soldiers ran over.

Reynolds couldn’t understand what they were yelling for, but he felt cold all of a sudden. He stumbled and began to fall over but was lowered by the marine and some other men. He looked down at his legs and thought it was weird that he couldn’t feel them. Was that his blood or the runner’s?

“That’s a lot of blood,” he muttered, then looked up at the marine. “We should probably get a medic.”

“Where’s that fucking medic!” the marine shouted.

The sky was growing a bit dark for noon. It shouldn’t be that dark, should it? Reynolds looked over as a new person ran up.

“Someone tell Adrian…” he mumbled. Then everything went dark.

Mobile Command
Church of the Divine Judgment
Des Moines International Airport

Brother Nicodemus was only a little worried. His troops were moving forward on all fronts. He’d rounded up the largest number of Cleansed he’d ever personally seen in makeshift pens east of the airport and had his men release them at the right moment. His squad leaders had found many more, but they had been in too decrepit a state for action. They had done their work and earned their rest, and the brethren had sent them on to the next plane with the appropriate blessings and sacraments.

That still left over a hundred of the Cleansed to assault the airport, and they’d done just what they were supposed to do—draw the enemy’s forces away and split their focus. Coupled with his own three-hundred-plus men, he still felt confident that they would take down the infidels, even though they were taking more losses than he had expected. Then the infidels had suddenly received nearly twice their number in reinforcements.

When those had arrived, one of his men had questioned the wisdom of attacking a force of thousands with only four hundred, and Nicodemus had laughed.

“Four hundred against thousands? Thousands of women, children, and elderly who have been sucking off the infidel teat for twenty years and pose no threat to us. No, the Cleansed will account for them. Our task is to fall on the infidels themselves, and there are only a handful of those, less than fifty. We shall easily overwhelm them.”

The objecting brother had, of course, then been taken for conversion into a Cleansed, since it was against the word of the Church and the reverend to object to one’s superiors. He would have done better to follow orders and not raise his concerns, but then, many of the brethren were not exactly smart.

No, the Church would win this day. Nicodemus had no doubt.

After all, the Church had God on its side.

He’d split some of his forces off to the north and some to the south, with the main attack coming from the west and the Cleansed coming from the east. The attack had been totally unexpected, and he was certain that even with their reinforcements, the infidels would pay the ultimate price for their heathen ways.

It was only a matter of time before the forces of the righteous overran and slaughtered the wicked. What a day. What a lovely day.

One of his brothers whose name he couldn’t recall arrived in one of the stolen infidel vehicles. All screeching tires and dust cloud, the brother pulled someone from the back of the vehicle and brought him around to Nicodemus, throwing the man at his commander’s feet.

“He was running straight toward us, Brother,” the driver said. “He was easily captured.”

Nicodemus’s eyes widened. An infidel, alive! And judging from the insignia on his uniform, one highly placed and therefore valuable to his superiors. The infidel coughed, clearing the dust from his throat, and looked up at Nicodemus.

“I formally request asylum. If you contact your commander, he’ll verify my worth to you. Tell him that Mancuso has made contact. He’ll know of me.”

Nicodemus’s hand flew of its own volition, striking the infidel across the mouth and knocking him to one side. The bound man fell hard, and Nicodemus saw his head strike the ground. But he wasn’t unconscious, just pained.

“Silence, dog! You will speak only when spoken to, or I will have your tongue!”

Mancuso spit blood from his mouth and nodded without speaking. It was a violation of a minor sort, but Nicodemus let it pass, given the circumstances.

“Brother Hanun,” he said as he finally remembered the other man’s name. “We will take him with us when we are done here. He will provide much knowledge to the archbishop.”

Hanun nodded and returned Mancuso to the rear of the stolen vehicle, where he was joined by a few civilian prisoners and other Brothers who took the remaining seats.

Nicodemus looked out at the battlefield and then glanced over at the bound man in the back of the stolen vehicle.

“Or maybe not,” he said to himself. He raised his voice. “Get me the device.”

One of his assistants handed him a bulky satellite phone. He activated it with the proper prayers and waited for the voice on the other end.

“Brother Nicodemus, you have news?”

“The attack on the infidels goes well, but—”

“Is it completed?”

“Well, no, but—”

“I—We are not interested in your excuses, Brother. Complete your mission. You know the penalty for fail—”

“
Mancuso
!” Nicodemus yelled into the phone, spittle flying from his mouth. “He told me to tell you his name was Mancuso and that you would know who he is!”

There was a silence on the line, and then the voice came back. “Hold, please, for the archbishop’s representative.”

Nicodemus could not have been more shocked if someone had hit him with one of the cattle prods they used to corral the Cleansed. “Uh…” he said, speechless, then recovered. “Of course. Holding.” Not that the person on the other end of the device had been listening.

At least he hoped not.

Another voice came on the line, one he didn’t recognize. “Am I speaking to Brother Nicodemus?”

“You… You are. Whom do I have the honor of addressing?”

“My name is unimportant. Did you report that you have in custody someone named Mancuso?”

“Uh, yes, yes, I do. At least, that’s what he said his name was.”

“I have new instructions for you. Are you familiar with the Angel Flight?”

Nicodemus had never seen the winged arm of the Church in person, but he’d heard about them. “I am… Brother?” He wasn’t sure how to address the man on the other end, but he figured everyone was a brother of some sort in the Church, so it couldn’t hurt.

“You will receive contact from the Angel Flight within the hour. You will follow their directions as though they were orders from the archbishop himself. Do you understand?”

“I do, Brother.”

“Do not fail, Nicodemus.” The line went dead, and he handed the device back to his assistant. He was proud that his hand only shook a little.

A short time later, Nicodemus looked up at the strange, loud sound overhead. Through the smoke and haze of the battle, he saw a type of flying craft he’d never before seen set down in a clearing nearby. It looked like a big dragonfly of some sort, with whirling blades above it and a long tail. He’d received instructions on how to prepare the landing zone, so he wasn’t entirely surprised, but it wasn’t every day that you saw the fabled Angel Flight. He whispered a quick prayer to bless them for their service, as was ordained by the Church.

He was only mildly curious at the other two that hovered nearby in the sky, protecting their brother. Curiosity was not a trait that was encouraged in the Church, and so he let the question in his mind drift away.

The brothers in the flying craft directed him to transport the prisoner into the belly of the landed beast, and the men inside strapped the man into a seat as they lifted off. Nicodemus again raised a hand in prayer for the safe flight of the blessed Angels. He turned to pray over the other hovering Angels as well.

It was then that he noticed the curious flames coming from their sides and the explosions of dirt that flew toward him. His final thought as they flew over his believers was to wonder how he had angered his God and his church enough to warrant his forces’ destruction by the Angels.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Headquarters
First Church of the Divine Judgment
West Lafayette, Indiana

Harper Grey punched End on his sat phone and set it back on the side table next to the plush couch he’d taken over in the reverend’s office. The smoke from his cigar floated up from the ashtray on the same table. He picked up the stogie and took a drag, then looked over at the reverend, or archbishop, or prophet, or whatever he was calling himself today. The man was watching Harper and tapping his fingers on his desk.

Sebastian Wright, leader of the hundred-thousand-plus strong Church, spoke in clipped words, impatient for news. “Well, Mr. Grey? What have you to report?”

Harper took his time replying. He blew smoke rings upward and watched them curl in upon themselves. “The attack is ongoing.”

“You assured me that the number of forces I provided would be more than enough to—”

“Calm yourself, Reverend,” Grey continued, still not looking at the reverend. “We have already had some success.”

“What? What success? Speak plainly, I command you!”

Harper sat forward with the speed of a striking snake, and Wright flinched backward. “You
command
me?”

“Uh, yes, well, I mean, please tell me what you mean.”

Harper held his position for a moment and then smiled. Wright flinched again. Harper had been told he had the smile of a shark, and it was times like this that he believed it.

“I mean that our ultimate goal was a success. We extracted the believer—our spy—from the nest of infidels. He’s on his way here even now. The rest of the battle is just for show at this point.”

“Well, that’s great news! Why didn’t you say so?”