Shattered Hourglass Part 10

Doc and Billy quickly moved across the overpa.s.s like thieves in the night. Through their NODs, they saw a pileup of cars thirty meters out. They'd need to negotiate this Jenga pile of steel in order to reach the other side.

The first leading edge of the swarm began to trickle beneath the overpa.s.s. The main river of corpses approached rapidly. The smell sickened Doc when the wind shifted, pushing those rotting molecules into his nostrils.

Doc knew that the unforgiving and lethal thing about a swarm like this was that the head of the undead snake could be led and altered by anything. Stray dog, deer, a still-functioning car alarm-anything.

"Doc, we might wanna hold here at the middle of the bridge and see where they go. I don't want to pick the wrong side. Could be really bad," Billy suggested.

Doc thought for a moment about the worst-case scenario. What if the swarm split and they spilled onto the overpa.s.s from both sides? No factor. "We need to get over those cars and a few hundred meters ahead. We have about two hours before we have to head back to arrive home before sunup. We'll wait a few, but I don't like it. Take a look."

Both men peeked over the guardrail up the river of undead. Although visibility through the NODs didn't give them long-distance resolution, they still knew they were looking at a mile-long and thirty-foot-wide ma.s.s of creatures. Neither of them wanted to do the math on that one.

The flow rate of the undead river increased from trickle to stream. Just over halfway across the overpa.s.s, Doc and Billy began to low-crawl, not because they needed to, but because they were so G.o.dd.a.m.ned scared. It was like ducking when getting out of a running helicopter-unnecessary, but not really a bad idea either.

They reached the vehicle wreckage. The walking river below was at peak flow, causing the overpa.s.s to vibrate. Doc again risked a peek over the side and saw at least a half-mile of moving corpses on either side of the bridge. The things didn't seem to suspect that potential prey was spying on them from above. Some of the ghouls tried to break away from the pack, but returned quickly, again attracted to the loud rumble of the swarm.

"Let's take a break and have some chow," Doc suggested.

"Sounds good. We got at least twenty minutes."

They tore into expired energy bars and drank the wine of iodine as the bridge shook underneath and the oblivious dead river ravaged down a derelict road to nowhere.

20.

Arctic North Crusow, Mark, and the other three outpost survivors met in the conference room adjacent to the control center. The station's military consultants, Bret and Larry, as well as He-Wei Chin, the outpost scientist, stood together, still wearing heavy, ice-crusted cold-weather gear. He-Wei spoke very broken English and was sometimes a source of politically incorrect comedic relief for the rest of the survivors. Before posted in the Arctic, He-Wei was a Chinese national applying for U.S. citizenship status. He had volunteered for duty at Outpost Four to speed up his application process. Expedited citizenship was one of the incentives of arduous duty while serving in the U.S. Arctic research programs. Everyone called him Kung Fu, or just Kung, because of his pa.s.sable resemblance to Bruce Lee.

Even though Crusow, Mark, and Kung had spent the past several months living with Larry and Bret in a place barely bigger than a modern s.p.a.ce station, they didn't know much about them except that they were military men and part of the mission here before the s.h.i.t hit the ice.

Many American operatives who were alive before the undead rose up suspected that there were hundreds of covert facilities around the world, many using missions to conceal their true purpose. Outpost Four had been publicly drilling for core samples before the fall of man, but so had every other outpost on the ice-facilities owned by a dozen other countries.

Larry and Bret never discussed their military status but their haircuts and demeanor gave it away upon arrival. Just like all the other fresh meat before, the new crew members would touch down in a modified C-17 aircraft outside the wintering-over season. There were new faces every time, but the same haircut and att.i.tude remained.

Now Larry was very ill, his condition worsening over the past few weeks. Mark thought that Larry might have come down with a bad bout of pneumonia. They used up half of the outpost's remaining antibiotics on him with no measurable effect. Larry could barely stand most of the time and Bret was often observed helping him to and from the different areas of the outpost. At least Larry was considerate enough to wear a face mask.

They couldn't risk anyone else getting sick, especially Crusow. They'd all likely be frozen inside of eighteen hours if Crusow was killed or incapacitated. He was the one who kept the generators running on schedule and also somehow formulated rudimentary biofuel using the dwindling chemicals and surplus food fats on hand. He wasn't one of the expendables, to be sure.

"Okay, thanks for showing up," said Crusow, addressing the small group. "I won't waste time in telling you that we've made contact."

"With who?" Bret asked excitedly.

"The USS George Washington."

"We're f.u.c.kin' saved!" Larry exclaimed, coughing loudly inside his mask.

Crusow frowned, saying, "Not really. They're in the Gulf of Mexico and couldn't make it here even if they wanted to. We're on the Pacific side of the Arctic Circle and even if it were spring and if they had an icebreaker ship, it would take them too long. We'd run out of supplies by then and be in the solid state, literally. We need to start thinking about contingency plans."

Larry coughed again, shooting crud inside his face mask. After a spell of cursing and changing masks, he asked, "What plans? We might as well be on a Martian outpost. Without a rescue party, we'll be blocks of ice in a month or two."

"Yeah, maybe so, but I ain't giving up either," Crusow replied, a little louder than he wanted. Taking himself down a notch, he continued: "It's true we're low on fuel, but I have a plan that might work."

"We're listening," Bret said.

"I've modified the Sno-Cat to run on biodiesel. This means that more of the remaining regular fuel can be used to keep this place at least warm enough to support life, say fifty degrees. We'll need to start sleeping in our cold-weather gear to conserve fuel and we'll need to start chopping off the outer limbs of this facility. We're spread out now as it stands and that wastes a lot of juice. Larry, you and Bret are going to need to suck it up and move into the crew wings and seal off your areas of the outpost."

"Wait a G.o.dd.a.m.ned minute!" Bret yelled. "Why do we need to move here? Why not the other way around?"

"Listen! Either you two move in with us, or you freeze! I control the heat, the darkness, and the light, and I'll be shutting you down in forty-eight hours. It's nothing personal-I need to be near the equipment and I'm not moving to the military wing with you and Iron Lung here."

Neither Larry nor Bret responded. They knew the hand they were dealt. Crusow could see their eyes shift. They were both military and both were likely calculating a way to regain some leverage. Crusow didn't trust them, and probably never would.

After a moment, Larry coughed and asked, "We're lower on biodiesel than we are on the regular stuff. How are you going to make enough to keep that Sno-Cat full?"

"This is the part that gets a little weird and maybe dangerous. We've been brewing the biodiesel with old cooking oil up to this point. We're getting low because I've been running one of the generators on it to conserve the good stuff. I think I may have found a source of animal fat that might give us enough fuel to run that Sno-Cat a hundred miles, inside thin ice, and maybe, if there are any out and about and within portable radio . . ."

Bret interrupted, "If you're talking about killing the sled dogs, I'm all for-"

Crusow cut Bret off mid-sentence. "No, we're not killing the dogs. We might need them. Stop worrying about food, Bret-we have enough stored here to last us a while with everyone gone or dead. There's not really enough fat on those dogs to get us enough fuel needed to make any sort of difference anyway."

"Well, what is it then?" Larry asked impatiently.

Crusow made eye contact and said, "We're gonna have to rappel down the gulch and have a reunion with some of our old friends. Some of them were overweight. The fat on them has been frozen and preserved. There's probably a few hundred pounds worth at the bottom. We'll be able to make enough diesel to get the h.e.l.l out of here and, if lucky, some to spare."

"You are ape-s.h.i.t crazy, Crusow," Larry said.

"Maybe so, but unless you can think of a G.o.dd.a.m.ned better way to keep these generators running with enough fuel in reserves to run that Sno-Cat off this ice shelf, I'd keep your mouth shut. Besides, you're too weak to make the trip down the gulch and back up even once, so you have no say. It's over two hundred feet, mostly straight down. We'll need two people at the bottom to rig the bodies to the ropes and two up top with the dogs to pull them up."

They all looked at each other, waiting for someone to say something about the plan. Crusow didn't give them any time to think about it.

"Okay then. Which one of you b.a.s.t.a.r.ds is going down there with me?"

One week from Oahu Saien and I have learned at least some of the routine of submarine life. We understand the hierarchy of privilege and although I had sea legs from my time serving onboard navy ships, it is a culture shift serving onboard a submarine. I have been helping out in the radio room, mainly for selfish reasons. I have used the access to dispatch communications back to the USS George Washington, letting my Hotel 23 family know I'm okay. So far, no one onboard has voiced opposition.

The most recent message from John: "Tara sends love"

Although only three short words, even these brief dispatches really help. I've been gone less than two weeks; it seems like longer. Without email, it takes me back to a time where communication was more personal, more valued.

I wonder how many young adults of the "me generation" died during the outbreak while checking the signal on their smartphones or posting an inane update to their social network pages?

It probably went something like: OMFG, they're breaking down the door!

As self-centered as those kids were, I still wish they'd survived. I've unfortunately put a lot of skinny pantwearing creatures into the dirt from whence they came since all this started.

A few days ago, the captain briefed me on our mission on the island of Oahu. I'm honestly not surprised at the details, just at the risk we will be taking for limited return on our investment. According to military intelligence, the nuclear strike on Honolulu was successful, resulting in a total annihilation of the city and outlying suburbs.

La.r.s.en seems overly optimistic that the nuclear strike on Hawaii was somehow more effective in exterminating the undead than the one on the mainland United States. He's betting that the ma.s.s of creatures was in Honolulu at the time of detonation. In my professional opinion, this is a careless a.s.sessment. He is the captain of the boat and I'm only a consulting guest, but I was not shy in offering my dissent on the matter.

It is my personal opinion that we should keep our Chinese interpreter on board and task him to operate the boat's...o...b..ard SIGINT collection gear in order to provide self-protection and any warnings of Chinese military activity. There is a high probability that, if we leave him on the island, we might lose our interpreter to the creatures while we transit west to China. Also, there is no guarantee that Kunia's sensors are still viable this long after Hawaii went grid-down and dark. The biggest gamble is that we have no idea the current status of Kunia. Most of it is underground and it could be flooded, overrun with radiated dead, or caved in by a stray nuclear warhead. We just won't know until we go boots on the ground on the mainland; a plan I'm not willing to endorse right now, or ever.

Maximum pull-ups: 5 Push-ups: 65 1.5 mile treadmill run: 11:15 I hope the treadmill keeps working. I am spoiled by the luxury of running for exercise instead of for life and limb.

21.

Southeast Texas "Billy, is that what I think it is?"

"What?"

Doc activated his laser and pointed it a few hundred meters out, into a field. "That."

"Looks like someone took a plow and just started pulling. I can't really tell through the NODs."

"The map says the drop should be there. Let's break off and hit the field. Stay close."

"Roger."

Both men hopped the fence and stayed low, heading for the scarred terrain ahead. The wind shifted and they caught a foul whiff from the swarm in the distance.

"G.o.dd.a.m.n that stinks and I'll never say it doesn't," Doc said under his breath. "One hundred meters out. Looks like our drop hit there and was dragged away by the chute. Let's see where it goes."

"I'm following you-let's spread out a few meters though, okay?" Billy said.

"Okay, spread out, stay in visual, and get eyes on me every few seconds. I'll do the same."

"Sounds good, moving."

"Move."

They followed the gouged trail for a quarter mile to the top of a shallow ridgeline. As they moved closer, they heard what sounded like laundry flapping on a summertime clothesline. Peering over the top of the hill, they observed the target. A pallet wrapped in packing plastic sat tipped over on its side with a ripped chute streaming out in a straight line like a crazy comet tail.

The flapping noise must have drawn the creatures in the days and weeks since the drop came to a rest here. A couple dozen of them stood below the ridge in hibernation, waiting for anything alive to set off the primitive trip wires. Doc knew this by the way they stood like stone sentries. They arrived expecting food, only to shut down in order to conserve whatever energy source they utilized. This mystery was perplexing. Doc suspected that they derived energy from something other than the dwindling food source they hunted and consumed.

"How do you wanna handle this, Billy?"

"Well, we could stay back here and start dropping them in a certain order that will keep them sleeping. I'll start on the east group, you start on the west, and we'll meet in the middle. With any luck, we can have them all dropped before they hear anything much louder than that flapping parachute. Our cans should m.u.f.fle us this far out. We can even take a few steps back if we need to. At this distance point of aim and point of impact will be the same. Aim for the forehead anyway."

Doc knew Billy was pimping him about his point of aim.

"Okay, I like it," said Doc approvingly. "It's dark, they can't see us, but we can see them. I say we go for it."

"Just give the word."

"I'm west, you're east, engage after me."

"Roger."

Doc looked down the length of his carbine through the optic, noticing the glare of moonlight off his suppressor. He slapped the magnifier over, enlarging his sight picture. Sure enough, they stood like terrible gargoyles in the night. He thought that they might sway ever so slightly in this condition but could not be sure. No one spent enough time close enough to test the theory.

Deep breath, slow release, both eyes open, kill.

Bam.

As soon as Doc dropped his first creature, Billy Boy followed. Billy already sighted his first target and was just waiting for the suppressed sound of Doc's before he put the ghoul to the ground.

FUMP, FUMP, FUMP were the noises of the rounds. .h.i.tting the rotting skulls. They slowly and deliberately took their shots. One Mississippi, FUMP, two Mississippi, FUMP. Their plan was working; the creatures were staying in hibernation. They were down to only six remaining when Doc took his next shot. Pulling the trigger, Doc knew instantly something was different. A strange sound resonated, as if he'd just shot a street sign or a car. Doc had heard of this before, but never had it happen. Some creatures had metal plates implanted from previous injuries before the world went to h.e.l.l. The creature was thrown to the ground. Doc used his magnifier to get a better look. It was returning to its feet.

Doc turned to continue shooting his targets. FUMP.

The creature, now back on its feet, was very irritated. It began to call out, moaning, waking the others. It moved quickly, reacting to sound, even the suppressed sounds of their carbines. It started moving up the ridge toward them.

"Keep on yours, Doc, I'll keep dumping lead into this one."

"All right, Billy, handle it! It's fast!"

The creature continued to advance up the hill at a startling speed. Doc was right-it was faster than the others. Billy continued to take shots at the creature, missing most of them.

"Reloading!"

"I gotcha, do it," Doc said.

Billy dumped his empty mag and reached behind him for his fresh one. In high-stress situations, Billy always performed well because he told himself what to do, based on his training.

"Push, pull, rack, bang," he whispered aloud, executing what he was thinking.

After pushing the mag into the mag well, he pulled it to verify it was seated. He racked his M-4 charging and pulled the trigger. A bang sent the t.i.tanium cranium tumbling permanently down the hill in an awkward and tragic pose.

"Close one," said Doc. "That thing would have been up here with us, hanging out and telling jokes, if you'd have waited another few seconds."

"Yeah, I know, freaky. Not used to seeing them so aggressive."

"Me neither. Let's stay here at the top and watch for a minute or two. Might be some more down there. Don't want any ankle biters, know what I mean?" Doc suggested.

"Yeah, I know."