Last Stand (The Survivalist Book 7) (35 page)

As the platter and bolts shot from the front of the pipe, the entire cannon kicked backward. If not for Tanner’s considerable size and strength, the heavy pipe would have toppled him end over end. As it was, the explosion left him sitting flat on his butt, holding the pipe in his lap with his ears playing an off-key rendition of “The Star-Spangled Banner.”

Despite the incredible recoil, luck was on their side, and the platter hit the gate nearly dead center, blowing open the metal barrier. The grapeshot, too, found several soft targets, as evidenced by the sound of soldiers screaming in agony.

“Go!” Tanner shouted, struggling to get free of the cannon.

But his orders weren’t necessary. Korn and his men were already rushing forward with their shields extended like Roman legionnaires bearing scutums. A soldier darted out from behind a sandbag and threw a heavy switch, powering on the acoustic weapon. What happened next was a surprise to everyone. Incredible low-frequency sound waves reverberated all throughout the tunnel, causing terrible pain to infected and soldier alike. Everyone began to scream at once, many cupping their ears, some even collapsing to the floor. To Korn’s credit, he and his men continued the charge. Those that fell away in agony were replaced by others, and within seconds, they were pushing their way through the open gate.

It took only a moment for the LRAD to be disabled and the handful of soldiers remaining to be killed. Not even a single infected man or woman was lost in the assault, a feat that Tanner thought was probably worthy of recording in some military history book. Once the area was clear, Korn and his army pushed their way through an oversized hatch that led into the belly of the compound.

Mount Weather had been breached.

Tanner planted his feet and let the army of infected rush past. This was their fight, not his. And if his newfound blistered friends happened to get to Pike before him, so much the better. Only after the last man disappeared did he finally advance, stepping through the hatch with his shotgun at waist level. A dark corridor lay ahead, at the end of which was a set of metal stairs leading upward. The sounds of screams rang out from above. On the right battlefield, properly equipped soldiers would have had little trouble repelling such a primitive attack. Unfortunately for them, this was not that battlefield.

Tanner carefully climbed the stairs. A hallway went left and right, bloody bodies littering the passages. He turned right, passing a handful of open rooms to arrive at another staircase, also leading up. He proceeded slowly up the stairs, ready to let loose on anyone in uniform. They were his enemy. Not by choice perhaps, but such reflections were best considered while clutching a bottle of whiskey, and only after the fighting had been done.

At the top of the stairs were living quarters, as well as a few small meeting rooms. A maze of hallways stretched for hundreds of feet in every direction. He caught glimpses of the infected darting between rooms, ripping apart any who still remained. Their rage was burning hot, and no one, not even Korn, could control them.

Tanner walked down one of the long corridors, calling for President Pike.

No one answered.

He continued on, taking several turns as he made his way deeper into the compound. The rooms became larger, and the quarters a bit more plush. He passed a control room, the computer monitors bashed in and the chairs overturned. Bodies of technicians lay sprawled across the consoles. No one would be spared in the culling. Of that, Tanner was sure.

At the opposite end of the hallway were the bodies of several men in dark suits, Secret Service by the look of them. A dozen of the infected also lay dead, and Tanner found himself oddly relieved that Korn was not among them. He stepped over the bodies and proceeded into the adjacent office. The desk and lamps had been overturned, and more bodies lay strewn about. None of them appeared to be President Pike.

“Mr. President,” he said in a loud voice, “are you in here?”

To his surprise, there came a muffled reply, followed almost immediately by the door to a small cabinet swinging open. A handsome man with graying hair crawled out.

“Thank God!” breathed Pike. “Give me a hand, will you?”

Tanner reached down and helped him to his feet.

When Pike saw his shiny black eyes, he recoiled.

“You’re one of them!”

“No,” Tanner said with a quick shake of his head. “I did this to myself so they wouldn’t attack me.”

“But how?”

“It’s not important.”

“Who are you?”

“Tanner Raines.” For some reason, Tanner thought it important that he know his name. “Are you President Lincoln Pike?” He had only seen Pike’s image on the television a few times and wasn’t absolutely certain that he had found his man.

Pike stood up and straightened his suit.

“I most certainly am.” He looked past Tanner. “You’ve got to get me out of here. Those monsters are overrunning the entire center.”

Tanner knew what had to be done, but he hesitated. Murdering someone in cold blood weighed on a man’s soul, even one as weathered as his.

“I’m afraid that’s not why I’m here.”

“You have a duty to protect me. I’m the President, for God’s sake.”

Tanner shook his head. “No. I have a duty to protect only a handful of people in this world, and you’re not one of them.”

“Fine,” Pike said, pushing past him. “If you’re not going to help me, then get out of my way.” He stepped over to the door and glanced out.

The occasional scream could still be heard, but the corridor was empty. As Pike started to advance into the hallway, he felt a strong arm wrap around his neck from behind.

“What are you doing?” he croaked.

Tanner pressed his mouth close to one of Pike’s ears.

“I want you to understand that I’m not doing this for the Marshals, or even the entire city that you blew to hell and gone. This is for what you tried to do to Samantha. Say goodnight, Gracie.” And with that, Tanner snapped the man’s neck.

As President Pike slumped to the floor, his eyes turned to look past Tanner, as if he were staring at some imaginary ghost. His last words were as unsettling as they were mysterious.

“I love you.”

Samantha knew something was wrong. The four infected men who had been left behind to guard the train seemed to be growing more agitated by the minute. Worse yet, that agitation seemed directed at her. She moved closer to Issa, clutching her rifle as they stared down the long dark tunnel.

“I get the feeling they don’t like me.”

Issa said something to the men, and they barked at her. She turned to Samantha and studied her for a moment.

“What’s happening to you?” she whispered.

Samantha brought her hands to her face. Everything felt normal. Nothing growing where it shouldn’t be.

“What are you talking about?”

“You’re… you’re changing.”

Samantha turned and studied her reflection in the train’s metal bumper. Her eyes were no longer black.

“Oh no.”

“You’re becoming one of
them
. How’s that possible?”

“We injected blood to make us like you. It’s wearing off.”

“Tanner too?”

She nodded. “Yes, but we’re still the same people.”

The four infected men began to fan out, forming a large circle around Issa and Samantha. Issa glanced over her shoulder and growled something to them, but they continued to advance. She looked to Samantha and then back at the men. And then she did something that surprised everyone. She turned to face them, her hands reaching for two knives hanging at her belt.

“Let her be,” she hissed, sliding the knives free.

One of the men darted forward, and Issa sliced at him, the blade swishing harmlessly through the air.

Samantha inched closer. “Why do they hate me?”

“They just do.” When Issa looked at her, Samantha saw worry written all over her face. “Can you fight, little one?”

Samantha pressed her lips together, imagining for a moment that it was Tanner standing beside her. There was only one right answer.

“Yes.”

She immediately swung the rifle up and shot the closest man in the neck. He charged forward, blood trickling down his bare chest. She fired again, the .22 caliber slug striking him in the sternum. Still, he continued forward with his hands extended.

The other three men also charged. Issa swiped right with one knife and left with the other, crisscrossing one man’s chest. His skin opened up, and muscle bulged out. She brought both knives back together, driving their points into the sides of his neck. He collapsed as another of the men barreled into her, knocking her to the ground.

Samantha ducked under her opponent’s arms and fired again, this time at point blank range. The bullet entered through his armpit and ricocheted along his spine. His legs gave way, and he fell forward, nearly taking Samantha with him.

She sidestepped in the nick of time, avoiding not only the falling man but another who was trying to tackle her from behind. He stumbled past, snagging her shirt with one hand. She tried to use the rifle’s stock to bat him away, but he grabbed the weapon and flung it down the tracks. Samantha ducked and twisted underneath his outstretched arms, her shirt nearly ripping off in the process. A second later, her small hunting knife was in hand.

“Stay back,” she warned, slowly retreating as she waved the knife in front of her.

Issa had managed to get to her feet and hurried over to Samantha. Together, they stood back to back, knives in hand. The two remaining men closed in from opposite sides, their eyes wide and teeth bared. The one closest to Issa attacked first, knocking her sideways. Issa sliced up and away with the knife in her right hand, hoping to eviscerate him. The blade caught on one of his ribs, and was yanked from her grip. The man fired a wide right hook, catching her on the cheek. She fell, but not before driving the second blade deep into his belly. Even as his guts bulged out, the man refused to fall.

Meanwhile, Samantha played a game of cat and mouse, ducking away from her opponent while trying to slice him with every passing. She had managed to open a small wound on his thigh and another on his arm, but neither were enough to slow him down. He caught her with an open palm to her ear and then a solid punch to the chest. The second blow knocked the air out of her, and she doubled over, gasping as tears poured from her eyes.

As he moved in for the kill, she suddenly bolted upright, driving the knife out in front of her like a bayonet. The blade was only three inches long, but it was enough to slice through his solar plexus and nick his heart. He shoved her away, screaming, as he slowly pulled the knife free. But that would be last thing he would ever do.

Issa scrambled over on all fours and grabbed the ankles of the remaining attacker. He turned and kicked at her, catching her solidly in the ribs. But she refused to let go, instead leaning in to bite his Achilles tendon. He screamed and began hopping up and down on one foot in an effort to shake her off. She chewed and bit, blood running down her chin. Even before the tendon was fully severed, he fell, pulling his legs in close and curling into a protective ball. Issa scrambled across the floor, retrieved one of her knives, and plunged it deep into his back. Only when he stopped twitching, did she sit up, holding a hand to her swollen face.

Still wincing with every breath, Samantha walked over and reached down to help Issa to her feet.

“Thank you,” she said. “You saved my life.”

Issa reached out and put her arms around Samantha. They stood there for a long time, just holding one another upright.

When Issa finally spoke, she said only, “What else was I to do? You are my family now.”